UC-NRLF 


B    3    321    325 


GIFT  OF 


C 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH 


A  TALE 


OF 


A   LONELY   PAEISH 


BY 


F.   MARION    CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR  OP  "MB.   ISAACS,"   "  DB.   CLAUDIUS,"    "A  ROMAN    SINSEK ' 
"ZOROASTEB,"   ETC. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1902 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1886, 
BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 


Set  up  and  clectrotyped  January,  1893.     Reprinted 
January,  1894.    January,  1895.    January,  1896;  July,  1902. 


Twenty-fourth  Thousand 


Xortuooti  ^3rfSS  : 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 


I    DEDICATE   THIS   TALE 
A   MEAN   TOKEN    OF   A   LIFELONG  AFFECTION 

BORRINTO,  Christmat  Day,  1885 


155247 


A  TALE   OP   A  LONELY  PARISH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose  would  gladly 
have  given  up  taking  pupils.  He  was  growing  old 
and  his  sight  was  beginning  to  trouble  him;  he  was 
very  weary  of  Thucydides,  of  Homer,  of  the  works 
of  Mr.  Todhunter  of  which  the  green  bindings  ex 
pressed  a  hope  still  unrealised,  of  conic  sections  — 
even  of  his  beloved  Horace.  He  was  tired  of  the 
stupidities  of  the  dull  young  men  who  were  sent  to 
him  because  they  could  not  "keep  up,"  and  he  had 
long  ceased  to  be  surprised  or  interested  by  the 
remarks  of  the  clever  ones  who  were  sent  to  him 
because  their  education  had  not  prepared  them  for  an 
English  University.  The  dull  ones  could  never  be 
made  to  understand  anything,  though  Mr.  Ambrose 
generally  succeeded  in  making  them  remember  enough 
to  matriculate,  by  dint  of  ceaseless  repetition  and  a 
system  of  memoria  technica  which  embraced  most 
things  necessary  to  the  salvation  of  dull  youth.  The 
clever  ones,  on  the  other  hand,  generally  lacked  al 
together  the  solid  foundation  of  learning;  they  could 
construe  fluently  but  did  not  know  a  long  syllable 
from  a  short  one;  they  had  vague  notions  of  ele 
mental  algebra  and  no  notion  at  all  of  arithmetic,  but 

1 


2  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

did  very  well  in  conic  sections ;  they  knew  nothing 
of  prosody,  but  dabbled  perpetually  in  English  blank 
verse;  altogether  they  knew  most  of  those  things 
which  they  need  not  have  known  and  they  knew  none 
of  those  things  thoroughly  which  they  ought  to  have 
known.  After  twenty  years  of  experience  Mr. 
Ambrose  ascertained  that  it  was  easier  to  teach  a 
stupid  boy  than  a  clever  one,  but  that  he  would  pre 
fer  not  to  teach  at  all. 

Unfortunately  the  small  tithes  of  a  small  country 
parish  in  Essex  did  not  furnish  a  sufficient  income  for 
his  needs.  He  had  been  a  Fellow  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  within  a  few  years  of  taking  his  degree, 
wherein  he  had  obtained  high  honours.  But  he  had 
married  and  had  found  himself  obliged  to  accept  the 
first  living  offered  to  him,  to  wit,  the  vicarage  of 
Billingsfield,  whereof  his  college  held  the  rectory  and 
received  the  great  tithes.  The  entire  income  he  ob 
tained  from  his  cure  never  at  any  time  exceeded  three 
hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds,  and  in  the  year  when 
it  reached  that  high  figure  there  had  been  an  unusu 
ally  large  number  of  marriages.  It  was  not  surprising 
that  the  vicar  should  desire  to  improve  his  circum 
stances  by  receiving  one  or  two  pupils.  He  had  mar 
ried  young,  as  has  been  said,  and  there  had  been 
children  born  to  him,  a  son  and  a  daughter.  Mrs. 
Ambrose  was  a  good  manager  and  a  good  mother,  and 
her  husband  had  worked  hard.  Between  them  they 
had  brought  up  their  children  exceedingly  well. 
The  son  had  in  his  turn  entered  the  church,  had  ex 
hibited  a  faculty  of  pushing  his  way  which  had  not 
characterised  his  father,  had  got  a  curacy  in  a  fash 
ionable  Yorkshire  watering-place,  and  was  thought 
to  be  on  the  way  to  obtain  a  first-rate  living.  In  the 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  3 

course  of  time,  too,  the  daughter  had  lost  her  heart 
to  a  young  physician  who  had  brilliant  prospects  and 
some  personal  fortune,  and  the  Reverend  Augustin 
Ambrose  had  given  his  consent  to  the  union.  Nor 
had  he  been  disappointed.  The  young  physician 
had  risen  rapidly  in  his  profession,  had  been  elected 
a  member  of  the  London  College,  had  transferred  him 
self  to  the  capital  and  now  enjoyed  a  rising  practice 
in  Chelsea.  So  great  was  his  success  that  it  was 
thought  he  would  before  long  purchase  the  goodwill 
of  an  old  practitioner  who  dwelt  in  the  neighbour 
hood  of  Brompton  Crescent,  and  who,  it  was  said, 
might  shortly  be  expected  to  retire. 

It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  if  Mr.  Ambrose's 
life  had  not  been  very  brilliant,  his  efforts  had  on 
the  whole  been  attended  with  success.  His  chil 
dren  were  both  happy  and  independent  and  no  longer 
needed  his  assistance  or  support;  his  wife,  the  excel 
lent  Mrs.  Ambrose,  enjoyed  unfailing  health  and 
good  spirits ;  he  himself  was  still  vigorous  and  active, 
and  as  yet  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  couple 
of  pupils  at  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  each,  for  he 
had  early  got  a  reputation  for  successfully  preparing 
young  gentlemen  with  whom  no  other  private  tutor 
could  do  anything,  and  he  had  established  the  scale 
of  his  prices  accordingly.  It  is  true  that  he  had 
sacrificed  other  things  for  the  sake  of  imparting  tui 
tion,  and  more  than  once  he  had  hesitated  and  asked 
himself  whether  he  should  go  on.  Indeed,  when  he 
graduated,  it  was  thought  that  he  would  soon  make 
himself  remarkable  by  the  publication  of  some 
scholarly  work;  it  was  foretold  that  he  might  become 
a  famous  preacher;  it  was  asserted  that  he  was  a  gen 
eral  favourite  with  the  Fellows  of  Trinity  and  would 


4  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

get  a  proportionately  fat  living  —  but  he  had  com 
mitted  the  unpardonable  sin  of  allowing  his  chances 
of  fortune  to  slip  from  him.  He  had  given  up  his 
fellowship,  had  married  and  had  accepted  an  insig 
nificant  country  living.  He  asked  nothing,  and  he  got 
nothing.  He  never  attracted  the  notice  of  his  bishop 
by  doing  anything  extraordinary,  nor  the  notice  of 
the  public  by  appearing  in  print.  He  baptized,  mar 
ried  and  buried  the  people  of  Billingsfield,  Essex, 
and  he  took  private  pupils.  He  wrote  a  sermon  once 
a  fortnight,  and  revised  old  ones  for  the  other  three 
occasions  out  of  four.  His  sermons  were  good  in 
their  way,  but  were  intended  for  simple  folk  and  did 
no  justice  to  the  powers  he  had  certainly  possessed 
in  his  youth.  Indeed,  as  years  went  on,  the  dry 
routine  of  his  life  produced  its  inevitable  effect  upon 
his  mind,  and  the  productions  of  Mr.  Ambrose  grew 
to  be  exceedingly  commonplace ;  and  the  more  com 
monplace  he  became,  the  more  he  regretted  having 
done  so  little  with  the  faculties  he  enjoyed,  and  the 
more  weary  he  became  of  the  daily  task  of  galvanis 
ing  the  dull  minds  of  his  pupils  into  a  spasmodic 
activity,  just  sufficient  to  leap  the  ditch  that  sepa 
rates  the  schoolboy  from  the  undergraduate.  He  had 
not  only  educated  his  children  and  seen  them  pro 
vided  for  in  the  world;  he  had  also  saved  a  little 
money,  and  he  had  insured  his  life  for  five  hundred 
pounds.  There  was  no  longer  any  positive  necessity 
for  continuing  to  teach,  as  there  had  been  thirty  years 
ago,  when  he  first  married. 

So  much  for  the  circumstances  of  the  Reverend 
Augustin  Ambrose.  Personally  he  was  a  man  of 
good  presence,  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  active 
and  strong,  of  a  ruddy  complexion  with  smooth,  thick 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  5 

grey  hair  and  a  plentiful  grey  beard.  He  shaved 
his  upper  lip  however,  greatly  to  the  detriment  of 
his  appearance,  for  the  said  upper  lip  was  very  long 
and  the  absence  of  the  hirsute  appendage  showed  a 
very  large  mouth  with  very  thin  lips,  generally  com 
pressed  into  an  expression  of  remarkable  obstinacy. 
His  nose  was  both  broad  and  long  and  his  grey  eyes 
were  bright  and  aggressive  in  their  glance.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  Mr.  Ambrose  was  combative  by  nature, 
but  his  fighting  instincts  seem  to  have  been  generally 
employed  in  the  protection  of  rights  he  already  pos 
sessed,  rather  than  in  pushing  on  in  search  of  fresh 
fields  of  activity.  He  was  an  active  man,  fond  of 
walking  alone  and  able  to  walk  any  distance  he 
pleased ;  a  charitable  man  with  the  charity  peculiar 
to  people  of  exceedingly  economical  tendencies  and 
possessing  small  fixed  incomes.  He  would  give 
himself  vast  personal  trouble  to  assist  distress,  as 
though  aware  that  since  he  could  not  give  much 
money  to  the  poor  he  was  bound  to  give  the  best  of 
himself.  The  good  Mrs.  Ambrose  seconded  him  in 
this  as  in  all  his  works ;  labouring  hard  when  hard 
work  could  do  any  good,  but  giving  material  assist 
ance  with  a  sparing  hand.  It  sufficiently  defines 
the  two  to  say  that  although  many  a  surly  labourer 
in  the  parish  grumbled  that  the  vicar  and  his  wife 
were  "oncommon  near,"  when  money  was  concerned, 
there  was  nevertheless  no  trouble  in  which  their  aid 
was  not  invoked  and  their  advice  asked.  But  the 
indigent  labourer  not  uncommonly  retrieved  his  posi 
tion  by  asking  a  shilling  of  one  of  the  young  gentle 
men  at  the  vicarage,  who  were  generally  open-handed, 
good-looking  boys,  blessed  with  a  great  deal  more 
money  than  brains. 


6  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

At  the  time  when  this  tale  opens,  however,  it 
chanced  that  one  of  the  two  young  gentlemen  at  the 
vicarage  was  by  no  means  in  the  position  peculiar  to 
the  majority  of  youths  who  sought  the  good  offices 
of  the  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose.  John  Short, 
aged  eighteen,  was  in  all  respects  a  remarkable  con 
trast  to  his  companion  the  Honourable  Cornelius 
Angleside.  John  Short  was  apparently  very  poor; 
the  Honourable  Cornelius  on  the  other  hand  had 
plenty  of  money.  Short  was  undeniably  clever; 
Angleside  was  uncommonly  dull.  Short  was  the 
son  of  a  decayed  literary  man;  Angleside  was  the 
son  of  a  nobleman.  Short  was  by  nature  a  hard 
worker;  Angleside  was  amazingly  idle.  Short  meant 
to  do  something  in  the  world;  Angleside  had  early 
determined  to  do  nothing. 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  define  the  reasons  which 
induced  Mr.  Ambrose  to  receive  John  Short  under 
his  roof.  He  had  never  before  taken  a  pupil  on  any 
but  his  usual  terms,  and  at  his  time  of  life  it  was 
strange  that  he  should  break  through  the  rule.  But 
here  his  peculiar  views  of  charity  came  into  play. 
Short's  father  had  been  his  own  chum  at  school,  and 
his  friend  at  college,  but  had  failed  to  reap  any  sub 
stantial  benefits  from  his  education.  He  had  been  a 
scholar  in  his  way,  but  his  way  had  not  been  the  way 
of  other  scholars,  and  when  he  had  gone  up  for  hon 
ours  he  had  got  a  bad  third  in  classics.  He  would 
not  enter  the  church,  he  could  not  enter  the  law,  he 
had  no  interest  whatever,  and  he  found  himself 
naturally  thrust  into  the  profession  of  literature. 
For  a  time  he  had  nearly  starved ;  then  he  had  met 
with  some  success  and  had,  of  course,  married  with 
out  hesitation ;  after  this  he  had  had  more  misfortunes. 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  7 

His  wife  had  died  leaving  him  an  only  son,  whom  in 
course  of  time  he  had  sent  to  school.  But  school 
was  too  expensive  and  he  had  reluctantly  taken  the 
boy  home  again.  It  was  in  a  fit  of  despair  that  he 
wrote  to  his  old  friend  Augustin  Ambrose,  asking 
his  advice.  The  Reverend  Augustin  considered  the 
matter  with  the  assistance  of  his  wife,  and  being 
charitable  souls,  they  determined  that  they  must 
help  Short  to  educate  his  son.  Accordingly  the 
vicar  of  Billingsfield  wrote  to  his  old  friend  to  say 
that  if  he  could  manage  to  pay  a  small  sum  for  the 
lad's  board,  he,  the  vicar,  would  complete  the  boy's 
education,  so  that  he  might  at  least  have  a  chance 
in  the  world.  Short  accepted  the  offer  with  bound 
less  gratitude  and  had  hitherto  not  failed  to  pay  the 
vicar  the  small  sum  agreed  upon.  The  result  of  all 
this  was  that  Mr.  Ambrose  had  grown  very  fond  of 
John,  and  John  had  derived  great  advantage  from 
his  position.  He  possessed  precisely  what  his  father 
had  lacked,  namely  a  strong  bent  in  one  direction, 
and  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  would  distinguish 
himself  if  he  had  a  chance.  That  chance  the  vicar 
had  determined  to  give  him.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  his  old  friend's  son  should  go  to  college 
and  show  what  he  was  able  to  do.  It  was  not  an  easy 
thing  to  manage,  but  the  vicar  had  friends  in  Cam 
bridge  and  John  had  brains ;  moreover  the  vicar  and 
John  were  both  very  obstinate  people  and  had  both 
determined  upon  the  same  plan,  so  that  there  was  a 
strong  probability  of  their  succeeding. 

John  Short  was  eighteen  years  of  age,  neither  par 
ticularly  good-looking  nor  by  any  means  the  reverse. 
He  had  what  bankers  commonly  call  a  lucky  face ; 
that  is  to  say  he  had  a  certain  veiy  prepossessing 


8  A   TALE   OF    A   LONELY   PARISH. 

look  of  honesty  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  a  certain  look 
of  energetic  goodwill  in  his  features.  When  he  was 
much  older  and  wore  a  beard  he  passed  for  a  hand 
some  man,  but  at  eighteen  he  could  only  boast  the 
smallest  of  fair  whiskers,  and  when  anybody  took 
the  trouble  to  look  long  at  him,  which  was  not  often, 
the  verdict  was  that  his  jaw  was  too  heavy  and  his 
mouth  too  obstinate.  In  complexion  he  was  fair, 
and  healthy  to  look  at,  generally  sunburned  in  the 
summer,  for  he  had  a  habit  .of  reading  out  of  doors ; 
his  laugh  was  very  pleasant,  though  it  was  rarely 
heard;  his  eyes  were  honest  but  generally  thought 
ful;  his  frame  was  sturdy  and  already  inclined  rather 
to  strength  than  to  graceful  proportion;  his  head 
matched  his  body  well,  being  broad  and  well-shaped 
with  plenty  of  prominence  over  the  brows  and  plenty 
of  fulness  above  the  temples.  He  had  a  way  of 
standing  as  though  it  would  not  be  easy  to  move 
him,  and  a  way  of  expressing  his  opinion  which 
seemed  to  challenge  contradiction.  But  he  was  not 
a  combative  boy.  If  any  one  argued  with  him,  it 
soon  appeared  that  he  was  not  really  argumentative, 
but  merely  enthusiastic.  It  was  not  necessary  to 
agree  with  him,  and  there  was  small  use  in  contra 
dicting  him.  The  more  he  talked  the  more  enthusi 
astic  he  grew  as  he  developed  his  own  views ;  until 
seeing  that  he  was  not  understood  or  that  he  was 
merely  laughed  at,  he  would  end  his  discourse 
with  a  merry  laugh  at  himself,  or  a  shy  apology 
for  having  talked  so  much.  But  the  vicar  assured 
his  wife  that  the  boy's  Greek  and  Latin  verses 
were  something  very  extraordinary  indeed,  and 
much  better  than  his  own  in  his  best  days.  For 
John  was  passionately  fond  of  the  classics  and  did 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  9 

not  propose  to  acquire  any  more  mathematical  knowl 
edge  than  was  strictly  necessary  for  his  matricula 
tion  and  "little-go."  He  meant  to  be  a  famous 
scholar  and  he  meant  to  get  a  fellowship  at  his 
college  in  order  to  be  perfectly  independent  and  to 
help  his  father. 

John  was  a  constant  source  of  wonder  to  his  com 
panion  the  Honourable  Cornelius  Angleside,  who  re 
membered  to  have  seen  fellows  of  that  sort  at  Eton 
but  had  never  got  near  enough  to  them  to  know  what 
they  were  really  like.  Cornelius  had  a  vague  idea 
that  there  was  some  trick  about  appearing  to  know 
so  much  and  that  those  reading  chaps  were  awful 
humbugs.  How  the  trick  was  performed  he  did  not 
venture  to  explain,  but  he  was  as  firmly  persuaded 
that  it  was  managed  by  some  species  of  conjuring  as 
that  Messrs.  Maskelyne  and  Cook  performed  their 
wonders  by  sleight  of  hand.  That  one  human  brain 
should  actually  contain  the  amount  of  knowledge 
John  Short  appeared  to  possess  was  not  credible  to 
the  Honourable  Cornelius,  and  the  latter  spent  more 
of  his  time  in  trying  to  discover  how  John  "did  it" 
than  in  trying  to  "do  it"  himself.  Nevertheless, 
young  Angleside  liked  Short  after  his  own  fashion, 
and  Short  did  not  dislike  Angleside.  John's  father 
had  given  him  to  understand  that  as  a  general  rule 
persons  of  wealth  and  good  birth  were  a  set  of  over 
bearing,  purse-proud  bullies,  who  considered  men  of 
genius  to  be  little  better  than  a  set  of  learned  mon 
keys,  certainly  not  good  enough  to  black  their  boots. 
For  John's  father  in  his  misfortunes  had  imbibed 
sundry  radical  notions  formerly  peculiar  to  poor 
literary  men,  and  not  yet  altogether  extinct,  and  he 
had  accordingly  warned  his  son  that  all  mammon  was 


10  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

the  mammon  of  unrighteousness,  and  that  the  peo 
ple  who  possessed  it  were  the  natural  enemies  of 
people  who  had  to  live  by  their  brains.  But  John 
had  very  soon  discovered  that  though  Cornelius 
Angleside  possessed  the  three  qualifications  for  per 
dition,  in  the  shape  of  birth,  wealth  and  ignorance, 
against  which  his  poor  father  railed  unceasingly,  he 
succeeded  nevertheless  in  making  himself  very  good 
company.  Angleside  was  not  overbearing,  he  was 
not  purse-proud  and  he  was  not  a  bully.  On  the 
contrary  he  was  unobtrusive  and  sufficiently  simple 
in  manner,  and  he  certainly  never  mentioned  the 
subject  of  his  family  or  fortune ;  John  rather  pitied 
him,  on  the  whole,  until  he  began  to  discover  that 
Angleside  looked  up  to  him  on  account  of  his  mental 
superiority,  and  then  John,  being  very  human,  began 
to  like  him. 

The  life  at  the  vicarage  of  Billingsfield,  Essex, 
was  not  remarkable  for  anything  but  its  extreme 
regularity.  Prayers,  breakfast,  work,  lunch,  a  walk, 
work,  dinner,  work,  prayers,  bed.  The  programme 
never  varied,  save  as  the  seasons  introduced  some 
change  in  the  hours  of  the  establishment.  The  vicar, 
who  was  fond  of  a  little  gardening  and  amused  him 
self  with  a  variety  of  experiments  in  the  laying  of 
asparagus  beds,  found  occasional  excitement  in  the 
pursuit  of  a  stray  cat  which  had  managed  to  climb 
his  wire  netting  and  get  at  the  heads  of  his  favourite 
vegetable,  in  which  thrilling  chase  he  was  usually 
aided  by  an  old  brown  retriever  answering,  when  he 
answered  at  all,  to  the  name  of  Carlo,  and  by  the 
Honourable  Cornelius,  whose  skill  in  throwing  stones 
was  as  phenomenal  as  his  ignorance  of  Latin  quanti 
ties.  The  play  was  invariably  opened  by  old  Rey- 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  11 

nolds,  the  ancient  and  bow-legged  gardener,  groom 
and  man  of  all  work  at  the  vicarage. 

"Please  sir,  there's  Simon  Gunn's  cat  in  the  spar- 
rergrass."  The  information  was  accompanied  by  a 
sort  of  chuckle  of  evil  satisfaction  which  at  once 
roused  the  sleeping  passions  of  the  Reverend  Augus- 
tin  Ambrose. 

"Dear  me,  Reynolds,  then  why  don't  you  turn 
her  out?"  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  the 
excellent  vicar  would  spring  from  his  seat  and  rush 
down  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of  the  beds,  closely 
followed  by  the  Honourable  Cornelius,  who  picked 
up  stones  from  the  gravel  path  as  he  ran,  and  whose 
long  legs  made  short  work  of  the  iron  fence  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden.  Meanwhile  the  aged  Rey 
nolds  let  Carlo  loose  from  the  yard  and  the  hunt  was 
prosecuted  with  great  boldness  and  ingenuity.  The 
vicar's  object  was  to  get  the  cat  out  of  the  asparagus 
bed  as  soon  as  possible  without  hurting  her,  for  he 
was  a  humane  man  and  would  not  have  hurt  a  fly. 
Cornelius,  on  the  other  hand,  desired  the  game  to 
last  as  long  as  possible,  and  endeavoured  to  prevent 
the  cat's  escape  by  always  hitting  the  wire  netting 
at  the  precise  spot  where  she  was  trying  to  get  over 
it.  In  this  way  he  would  often  succeed  in  getting 
as  much  as  half  an  hour's  respite  from  Horace.  At 
last  the  vicar,  panting  with  his  exertions  and  bathed 
in  perspiration,  would  protest  against  the  form  of 
assault. 

"Really,  Angleside,"  he  would  say,  "I  believe  I 
could  throw  straighter  myself.  I'm  quite  sure  Carlo 
can  get  her  out  if  you  leave  him  alone." 

Whereupon  Cornelius  would  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  look  on,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  when  the 


12        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

cat  had  been  driven  out  and  the  vicar's  back  was 
turned,  he  would  slip  a  sixpence  into  old  Reynold's 
hand,  and  follow  his  tutor  reluctantly  back  to  the 
study.  Whether  there  was  any  connection  between 
the  cat  and  the  sixpence  is  uncertain,  but  during  the 
last  months  of  Angleside's  stay  at  the  vicarage  the 
ingenuity  of  Simon  Gunn's  yellow  cat  in  getting 
over  the  wire  netting  reached  such  a  pitch  that  the 
vicar  began  to  prepare  a  letter  to  the  Bishop  Stort- 
ford  Chronicle  on  the  relations  generally  existing 
between  cats  and  asparagus  beds. 

Another  event  in  the  life  of  the  vicarage  was  the 
periodical  lameness  of  the  vicar's  strawberry  mare, 
followed  by  the  invariable  discovery  that  George 
Horsnell  the  village  blacksmith  had  run  a  nail  into 
her  foot  when  he  shoed  her  last.  Invariably,  also, 
the  vicar  threatened  that  in  future  the  mare  should 
be  shod  by  Hawkins  the  rival  blacksmith,  who  was 
a  dissenter  and  had  consequently  never  been  employed 
by  the  vicarage.  Moreover  it  was  generally  rumoured 
once  every  year  that  old  Nat  Barker,  the  octogenarian 
cripple  who  had  not  been  able  to  stand  upon  his  feet 
for  twenty  years,  was  at  the  point  of  death.  He  in 
variably  recovered,  however,  in  time  to  put  in  an 
appearance  by  proxy  at  the  distribution  of  a  certain 
dole  of  a  loaf  and  a  shilling  on  boxing  day.  It  was 
told  also  that  in  remote  times  the  Puckeridge  hounds 
had  once  come  that  way  and  that  the  fox  had  got  into 
the  churchyard.  A  repetition  of  this  stirring  event 
was  anxiously  looked  for  during  many  years,  every 
time  that  the  said  pack  met  within  ten  miles  of 
Billingsfield,  but  hitherto  it  had  been  looked  for  in 
vain.  On  the  whole  the  life  at  the  vicarage  was  not 
eventful,  and  the  studies  of  the  two  young  men  who 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  13 

imbibed  learning  at  the  feet  of  the  Reverend  Augus- 
tin  Ambrose  were  rarely  interrupted. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  herself  represented  the  feminine 
element  in  the  society  of  the  little  place.  The  new 
doctor  was  a  strange  man,  suspected  of  being  a  free 
thinker,  and  he  was  not  married.  The  Hall,  for 
there  was  a  Hall  at  Billingsfield,  was  uninhabited, 
and  had  been  uninhabited  for  years.  The  estate 
which  belonged  to  it  was  unimportant  and  moreover 
was  in  Chancery  and  seemed  likely  to  stay  there,  for 
reasons  no  one  ever  mentioned  at  Billingsfield,  be 
cause  no  one  knew  anything  about  them.  From 
time  to  time  a  legal  looking  personage  drove  up  to 
the  Duke's  Head,  which  was  kept  by  Mr.  Abraham 
Boosey,  who  was  also  undertaker  to  the  parish,  and 
which  was  thought  to  be  a  very  good  inn.  The  legal 
personage  stayed  a  day  or  two,  spending  most  of  his 
time  at  the  Hall  and  in  driving  about  to  the  scattered 
farms  which  represented  the  estate,  but  he  never 
came  to  the  vicarage,  nor  did  the  vicar  ever  seem  to 
know  what  he  was  doing  nor  why  he  came.  "  He 
came  on  business  "  —  that  was  all  that  anybody  knew. 
His  business  was  to  collect  rents,  of  course ;  but  what 
he  did  with  them,  no  one  was  bold  enough  to  sur 
mise.  The  estate  was  in  Chancery,  it  was  said,  and 
the  definition  conveyed  about  as  much  to  the  mind 
of  the  average  inhabitant  of  Billingsfield,  as  if  he  had 
been  informed  that  the  moon  was  in  perigee  or  the 
sun  in  Scorpio.  The  practical  result  of  its  being  in 
Chancery  was  that  no  one  lived  there. 

John  Short  liked  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  the  Honour 
able  Cornelius  behaved  to  her  with  well  bred  affa 
bility.  She  always  said  Cornelius  had  very  nice 
manners,  as  indeed  he  had  and  had  need  to  have. 


14  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

Occasionally,  perhaps  four  or  five  times  in  the  year, 
the  Reverend  Edward  Pewlay,  who  had  what  he 
called  a  tenor  voice,  and  his  wife,  who  played  the 
pianoforte  very  fairly,  came  over  to  assist  at  a  Penny 
Reading.  He  lived  "over  Harlow  way,"  as  the 
natives  expressed  it ;  he  was  what  was  called  in  those 
parts  a  rabid  Anglican,  because  he  preached  in  his 
surplice  and  had  services  on  the  Saints'  days,  and 
the  vicar  of  Billingsfield  did  not  sympathise  in  his 
views.  Nevertheless  he  was  very  useful  at  Penny 
Readings,  and  on  one  of  these  occasions  produced  a 
very  ingenious  ghost  for  the  delectation  of  the  rus 
tics,  by  means  of  a  piece  of  plate  glass  and  a  couple 
of  lamps. 

There  had  indeed  been  festivities  at  the  vicarage 
to  which  as  many  as  three  clergymen's  wives  had 
been  invited,  but  these  were  rare  indeed.  For 
months  at  a  time  Mrs.  Ambrose  reigned  in  undis 
puted  possession  of  the  woman's  social  rights  in 
Billingsfield.  She  was  an  excellent  person  in  every 
way.  She  had  once  been  handsome  and  even  now 
she  was  fine-looking,  of  goodly  stature,  if  also  of 
goodly  weight ;  rosy,  even  rubicund,  in  complexion, 
and  rotund  of  feature ;  looking  at  you  rather  severely 
out  of  her  large  grey  eyes,  but  able  to  smile  very 
cheerfully  and  to  show  an  uncommonly  good  set  of 
teeth ;  twisting  her  thick  grey  hair  into  a  small  knot 
at  the  back  of  her  head  and  then  covering  it  with  a 
neatly  made  cap  which  she  considered  becoming  to 
her  time  of  life ;  dressed  always  with  extreme  sim 
plicity  and  neatness,  glorying  in  her  good  sense  and 
in  her  stout  shoes;  speaking  of  things  which  she 
called  "neat"  with  a  devotional  admiration  and  ex- 


A  TA^E   OF  A   LONELY  PARISH.  15 

pressing  the  extremest  height  of  her  disapprobation 
when  she  said  anything  was  "very  untidy."  A 
motherly  woman,  a  practical  woman,  a  good  house 
keeper  and  a  good  wife,  careful  of  small  things 
because  generally  only  small  things  came  in  her  way, 
devotedly  attached  to  her  husband,  whom  she  re 
garded  with  perfect  justice  as  the  best  man  of  her 
acquaintance,  adding,  however,  with  somewhat  pre 
cipitous  rashness  that  he  was  the  best  man  in  the 
world.  She  took  also  a  great  interest  in  his  pupils 
and  busied  herself  mightily  with  their  welfare. 
Since  the  arrival  of  the  new  doctor  who  was  sus 
pected  of  free-thinking,  she  had  shown  a  strong  lean 
ing  towards  homoeopathy,  and  prescribed  small  pellets 
of  belladonna  for  the  Honourable  Cornelius's  cold 
and  infinitesimal  drops  of  aconite  for  John  Short's 
headaches,  until  she  observed  that  John  never  had  a 
headache  unless  he  had  worked  too  much,  and  An- 
gleside  always  had  a  cold  when  he  did  not  want  to 
work  at  all.  Especially  in  the  department  of  the 
commissariat  she  showed  great  activity,  and  the  repu 
tation  the  vicar  had  acquired  for  feeding  his  pupils 
well  had  perhaps  more  to  do  with  his  success  than  he 
imagined.  She  was  never  tired  of  repeating  that 
Englishmen  needed  plenty  of  good  food,  and  she  had 
no  principles  which  she  did  not  practise.  She  even 
thought  it  right  to  lecture  young  Angleside  upon 
his  idleness  at  stated  intervals.  He  always  replied 
with  great  gentleness  that  he  was  awfully  stupid, 
you  know,  and  Mr.  Ambrose  was  awfully  good  about 
it  and  he  hoped  he  should  not  be  pulled  when  he 
went  up.  And  strange  to  relate  he  actually  passed 
his  examination  and  matriculated,  to  his  own  im- 


16  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

mense  astonishment  and  to  the  no  small  honour  and 
glory  of  the  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose,  vicar 
of  Billingsfield,  Essex.  But  when  that  great  day 
arrived  certain  events  occurred  which  are  worthy  to 
be  chronicled  and  remembered. 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  17 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  the  warm  June  weather  young  Angleside  went 
up  to  pass  his  examination  for  entrance  at  Trinity. 
There  is  nothing  particularly  interesting  or  worthy 
of  note  in  that  simple  process,  though  at  that  time 
the  custom  of  imposing  an  examination  had  only 
been  recently  imported  from  Oxford.  For  one  whole 
day  forty  or  fifty  young  fellows  from  all  parts  of  the 
country  sat  at  the  long  din  ing-tables  in  the  beauti 
ful  old  hall  and  wrote  as  busily  as  they  could,  answer 
ing  the  printed  questions  before  them,  and  eyeing 
each  other  curiously  from  time  to  time.  The 
weather  was  warm  and  sultry,  the  trees  were  all  in 
full  leaf  and  Cambridge  was  deserted.  Only  a  few 
hard-reading  men,  who  stayed  up  during  the  Long, 
wandered  out  with  books  at  the  backs  of  the  colleges 
or  strayed  slowly  through  the  empty  courts,  objects 
of  considerable  interest  to  the  youths  who  had  come 
up  for  the  entrance  examination  —  chiefly  pale  men 
in  rather  shabby  clothes  with  old  gowns  and  battered 
caps,  and  a  general  appearance  of  being  the  worse 
for  wear. 

Angleside  had  been  in  Cambridge  before  and  con 
sequently  lost  no  time  in  returning  to  Billingsfield 
when  the  examination  was  over.  Short  was  to  spend 
the  summer  at  the  vicarage,  reading  hard  until  the 
term  began,  when  he  was  to  go  up  and  compete  for 
a  minor  scholarship ;  Angleside  was  to  wait  until  he 


18        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

heard  whether  he  had  passed,  and  was  then  going 
abroad  to  meet  his  father  and  to  rest  from  the  ex 
treme  exertion  of  mastering  the  "Apolog}'"  and  the 
first  books  of  the  "Memorabilia."  John  drove  over 
to  meet  the  Honourable  Cornelius,  who  was  in  a  ter 
rible  state  of  anxiety  and  left  him  no  peace  on  the 
way  asking  him  again  and  again  to  repeat  the  an 
swers  to  the  questions  which  had  been  proposed, 
reckoning  up  the  ones  he  had  answered  wrong  and 
the  ones  he  thought  he  might  have  answered  right, 
and  coming  each  time  to  a  different  conclusion, 
finally  lighting  a  huge  brierwood  pipe  and  swearing 
"that  it  was  a  beastly  shame  to  subject  human 
beings  to  such  awful  torture."  John  calmed  him  by 
saying  he  fancied  Cornelius  had  "got  through";  for 
John's  words  were  a  species  of  gospel  to  Cornelius. 
By  the  time  they  reached  the  vicarage  Angleside  felt 
sanguine  of  his  success. 

The  vicar  was  not  visible.  It  was  a  strange  and 
unheard  of  thing  —  there  were  visitors  in  the  drawing- 
room.  This  doubtless  accounted  for  the  fact  that  the 
fly  from  the  Duke's  Head  was  standing  on  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  road.  The  two  young  men  went  into 
their  study,  which  was  on  the  ground  floor  and  opened 
upon  the  passage  which  led  to  the  drawing-room  from 
the  little  hall.  Angleside  remarked  that  by  leaving 
the  door  open  they  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
visitor  when  he  went  out.  But  the  visitor  stayed 
long.  The  curiosity  of  the  two  was  wrought  up  to 
a  high  pitch ;  it  was  many  months  since  there  had 
been  a  real  visitor  at  the  vicarage.  Angleside  sug 
gested  going  out  and  finding  old  Reynolds  —  he 
always  knew  everything  that  was  going  on. 

"If  we  only  wait  long  enough,"  said  Short  phil 
osophically,  "they  are  sure  to  come  out," 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  19 

"Perhaps,"  returned  Cornelius  rather  doubtfully. 

"  They  "  did  come  out.  The  drawing-room  door 
opened  and  there  was  a  sound  of  voices.  It  was  a 
woman's  voice,  and  a  particularly  sweet  voice,  too. 
Still  no  one  came  down  the  passage.  The  lady 
seemed  to  be  lingering  in  taking  her  leave.  Then 
there  was  a  sound  of  small  feet  and  suddenly  a  little 
girl  stood  before  the  open  door  of  the  study,  looking 
wonderingly  at  the  two  young  men.  Short  thought 
he  had  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  child.  She  could 
not  have  been  more  than  seven  or  eight  years  old, 
and  was  not  tall  for  her  age ;  a  delicate  little  figure, 
all  in  black,  with  long  brown  curls  upon  her  shoul 
ders,  flowing  abundantly  from  beneath  a  round  black 
sailor's  hat  that  was  set  far  back  upon  her  head. 
The  child's  face  was  rather  pale  than  very  fair,  of  a 
beautiful  transparent  paleness,  with  the  least  tinge 
of  colour  in  the  cheeks ;  her  great  violet  eyes  gazed 
wonderingly  into  the  study,  and  her  lips  parted  in 
childlike  uncertainty,  while  her  little  gloved  hand 
rested  on  the  door-post  as  though  to  get  a  sense  of 
security  from  something  so  solid. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Both  the  young  fel 
lows  smiled  at  the  child  unconsciously.  Perhaps  she 
thought  they  were  laughing  at  her;  she  turned  and 
ran  away  again ;  then  passed  a  second  time,  stealing 
a  long  glance  at  the  two  strangers,  but  followed 
immediately  by  the  lady,  who  was  probably  her 
mother,  and  whose  voice  had  been  heard  for  the  last 
few  moments.  The  lady,  too,  glanced  in  as  she 
went  by,  and  John  Short  lost  his  heart  then  and 
there ;  not  that  the  lady  was  beautiful  as  the  little 
girl  was,  but  because  there  was  something  in  her 
face,  in  her  figure,  in  her  whole  carriage,  that  moved 


20  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

the  boy  suddenly  as  she  looked  at  him  and  sent  the 
blood  rushing  to  his  cheeks  and  forehead. 

She  seemed  young,  but  he  never  thought  of  her 
age.  In  reality  she  was  nine-and-twenty  years  old 
but  looked  younger.  She  was  pale,  far  paler  than 
the  little  girl,  but  she  had  those  same  violet  eyes, 
large,  deep  and  sorrowful,  beneath  dark,  smooth 
eyebrows  that  arched  high  and  rose  a  little  in  the 
middle.  Her  mouth  was  perhaps  large  for  her  face 
but  her  full  lips  curved  gently  and  seemed  able  to 
smile,  though  she  was  not  smiling.  Her  nose  was 
perhaps  too  small  —  her  face  was  far  from  faultless 
—  and  it  had  the  slightest  tendency  to  turn  up  in 
stead  of  down,  but  it  was  so  delicately  modelled  that 
an  artist  would  have  pardoned  it  that  deviation  from 
the  classic.  Thick  brown  hair  waved  across  her 
white  forehead  and  was  hidden  under  the  black 
bonnet  and  the  veil  thrown  back  over  it.  She  was 
dressed  in  black  and  the  close-fitting  gown  showed 
off  with  unconscious  vanity  the  lines  of  a  per 
fectly  moulded  and  perfectly  supple  figure.  But  it 
was  especially  her  eyes  which  attracted  John's  sud 
den  attention  at  that  first  glance,  her  violet  eyes, 
tender,  sad,  almost  pathetic,  seeming  to  ask  sym 
pathy  and  marvellously  able  to  command  it. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment  that  she  paused.  Then 
came  the  vicar,  following  her  from  the  drawing- 
room,  and  all  three  went  on.  Presently  Short  heard 
the  front  door  open  and  Mr.  Ambrose  shouted  to 
the  fly. 

"  Muggins !  Muggins !  " 

No  one  had  ever  been  able  to  say  why  Abraham 
Boosey,  the  publican,  had  christened  his  henchman 
with  an  appellation  so  vulgar,  to  say  the  least  of  it 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  21 

—  so  amazingly  cacophonous.  The  man's  real  name 
was  plain  Charles  Bird;  but  Abraham  Boosey  had 
christened  him  Muggins  and  Muggins  he  remained. 
Muggins  had  had  some  beer  and  was  asleep,  for  the 
afternoon  was  hot  and  he  had  anticipated  his  "fours." 

Short  saw  his  opportunity  and  darted  out  of  the 
study  to  the  hall  where  the  lady  and  her  little  girl 
were  waiting  while  the  vicar  tried  to  rouse  the 
driver  of  the  fly  by  shouting  at  him.  John  blushed 
again  as  he  passed  close  to  the  woman  with  the  sad 
eyes ;  he  could  not  tell  why,  but  the  blood  mounted 
to  the  very  roots  of  his  hair,  and  for  a  moment  he 
felt  very  foolish. 

"I'll  wake  him  up,  Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  said,  run 
ning  out  hatless  into  the  summer's  sun. 

"Wake  up,  you  lazy  beggar!  "  he  shouted  in  the 
ear  of  the  sleeping  Muggins,  shaking  him  violently 
by  the  arm  as  he  stood  upon  the  wheel.  Muggins 
grunted  something  and  smiled  rather  idiotically. 
"It  was  only  the  young  gentleman's  play,"  he  would 
have  said.  Bless  you !  he  did  not  mind  being  shaken 
and  screamed  at!  He  slowly  turned  his  horses  and 
brought  the  fly  up  to  the  door.  John  walked  back 
and  stood  waiting. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  lady  in  a  voice  that  made 
his  heart  jump,  as  she  came  out  from  under  the  porch 
and  the  vicar  helped  her  to  get  in.  Then  it  was  the 
turn  of  the  little  girl. 

"Good-bye,  my  dear,"  said  the  vicar  kindly  as  he 
took  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  child.  Then  she  hesitated 
and  looked  at  John,  who  was  standing  beside  the 
clergyman.  "  Good-bye, "  she  repeated,  holding  out 
her  little  hand  shyly  towards  him.  John  took  it 


22        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

and  grew  redder  than  ever  as  he  felt  that  the  lady 
was  watching  him.  Then  the  little  girl  blushed 
and  laughed  in  her  small  embarrassment,  and  climbed 
into  the  carriage. 

"You  will  write,  then?"  asked  Mr.  Ambrose  as 
he  shut  the  door. 

"  Yes  —  and  thank  you  again.  You  are  very,  very 
kind  to  me,"  answered  the  lady,  and  John  thought 
that  as  she  spoke  there  were  tears  in  her  voice. 
She  seemed  very  unhappy  and  to  John  she  seemed 
very  beautiful.  Muggins  cracked  his  whip  and  the 
fly  moved  off,  leaving  the  vicar  and  his  pupil  stand 
ing  together  at  the  iron  wicket  gate  before  the  house. 

"Well?  Do  you  think  Angleside  got  through?" 
asked  Mr.  Ambrose,  rather  anxiously. 

Short  said  he  thought  Angleside  was  safe.  He 
hoped  the  vicar  would  say  something  about  the  lady, 
but  to  his  annoyance,  he  said  nothing  at  all.  John 
could  not  ask  questions,  seeing  it  was  none  of  his 
business  and  was  fain  to  content  himself  with  think 
ing  of  the  lady's  face  and  voice.  He  felt  very  un 
comfortable  at  dinner.  He  thought  the  excellent 
Mrs.  Ambrose  eyed  him  with  unusual  severity,  as 
though  suspecting  what  he  was  thinking  about,  and 
he  thought  the  vicar's  grey  eye  twinkled  occasionally 
with  the  pleasant  sense  of  possessing  a  secret  he  had 
no  intention  of  imparting.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Mrs. 
Ambrose  was  supremely  unconscious  of  the  fact  that 
John  had  seen  the  lady,  and  looked  at  him  with 
some  curiosity,  observing  that  he  seemed  nervous 
and  blushed  from  time  to  time  and  was  more  silent 
than  usual.  She  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
been  working  too  hard,  as  usual,  and  that  night 
requested  him  to  take  two  little  pellets  of  aconite, 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  23 

and  to  repeat  the  dose  in  the  morning.  Whether  it 
was  the  result  of  the  homoeopathic  medicine  or  of  the 
lapse  of  a  few  hours  and  a  good  night's  rest,  it  is 
impossible  to  say;  John,  however,  was  himself  again 
the  next  morning  and  showed  no  further  signs  of 
nervousness.  But  he  kept  his  eyes  and  ears  open, 
hoping  for  some  news  of  the  exquisite  creature  who 
had  made  so  profound  an  impression  on  his  heart. 

In  due  time  the  joyful  news  arrived  from  Cam 
bridge  that  the  Honourable  Cornelius  had  passed  his 
examination  and  was  at  liberty  to  matriculate  at  the 
beginning  of  the  term.  The  intelligence  was  duly 
telegraphed  to  his  father,  and  in  a  few  hours  came  a 
despatch  in  answer,  full  of  affectionate  congratula 
tion  and  requesting  that  Cornelius  should  proceed  at 
once  to  Paris,  where  his  father  was  waiting  for  him. 
The  young  man  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  the 
vicar,  of  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  especially  of  John  Short, 
for  whom  he  had  conceived  an  almost  superstitious 
admiration;  old  Reynolds  was  not  forgotten  in  the 
farewell,  and  for  several  days  after  Angleside's  de 
parture  the  aged  gardener  was  observed  to  walk  some 
what  unsteadily  and  to  wear  a  peculiarly  thoughtful 
expression ;  while  the  vicar  observed  writh  annoyance 
that  Strawberry,  the  old  mare,  was  less  carefully 
groomed  than  usual.  Strangely  coincident  with 
these  phenomena  was  the  fact  that  Simon  Gunn's 
yellow  cat  seemed  to  have  entirely  repented  of  her 
evil  practices,  renouncing  from  the  day  when  Cor 
nelius  left  for  Paris  her  periodical  invasion  of  the 
asparagus  beds  at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  But  the 
vicar  was  too  practical  a  man  to  waste  time  in  specu 
lating  upon  the  occult  relations  of  seemingly  discon 
nected  facts.  He  applied  himself  with  diligence  to 


24  A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

the  work  of  preparing  John  Short  to  compete  for  the 
minor  scholarship.  The  labour  was  congenial.  He 
had  never  taken  a  pupil  so  far  before,  and  it  was  a 
genuine  delight  to  him  to  bring  his  own  real  powers 
into  play  at  last.  As  the  summer  wore  on,  he  pre 
dicted  all  manner  of  success  for  John  Short,  and  his 
predictions  were  destined  before  long  to  be  realised, 
for  John  did  all  he  promised  to  do  and  more  also. 
To  have  succeeded  in  pushing  the  Honourable  Corne 
lius  through  his  entrance  examination  was  a  triumph 
indeed,  but  an  uninteresting  one  at  best,  and  one 
which  had  no  further  consequences.  But  to  be  the 
means  of  turning  out  the  senior  classic  of  the  Uni 
versity  was  an  honour  which  would  not  only  greatly 
increase  the  good  vicar's  reputation  but  would  be  to 
him  a  source  of  the  keenest  satisfaction  during  the 
remainder  of  his  life ;  moreover  the  prospects  which 
would  be  immediately  opened  to  John  in  case  he 
obtained  such  a  brilliant  success  would  be  a  very 
material  benefit  to  his  unlucky  father,  whose  talents 
yielded  him  but  a  precarious  livelihood  and  whose 
pitiable  condition  had  induced  his  old  schoolfellow 
to  undertake  the  education  of  his  son. 

Much  depended  upon  John's  obtaining  one  or 
more  scholarships  during  his  career  at  college.  To  a 
man  of  inferior  talents  the  vicar  would  have  sug 
gested  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  go  to  a  smaller 
college  than  Trinity  where  he  would  have  less  com 
petition  to  expect;  but  as  soon  as  he  realised  John's 
powers,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  it  would  be  pre 
cisely  where  competition  was  hottest  that  his  pupil 
would  have  the  greatest  success.  He  would  get 
something  —  perhaps  his  father  would  make  a  little 
more  money  —  the  vicar  even  dreamed  of  lending 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  25 

John  a  small  sum  —  something  would  turn  up;  at 
all  events  he  must  go  to  the  largest  college  and  do 
everything  in  the  best  possible  way.  Meanwrhile  he 
must  work  as  hard  as  he  could  during  the  few  months 
remaining  before  the  beginning  of  his  first  term. 

Whether  the  lady  ever  wrote  to  Mr.  Ambrose, 
John  could  not  ascertain;  she  was  never  mentioned 
at  the  vicarage,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  mystery 
were  never  to  be  solved.  But  the  impression  she 
had  made  upon  the  young  man's  mind  remained  and 
even  gained  strength  by  the  working  of  his  imagina 
tion;  for  he  thought  of  her  night  and  day,  treasuring 
up  every  memory  of  her  that  he  could  recall,  build 
ing  romances  in  his  mind,  conceiving  the  most  in 
genious  reasons  for  the  solitary  visit  she  had  made 
to  the  vicarage,  and  inwardly  vowing  that  if  ever  he 
should  be  at  liberty  to  follow  his  own  inclinations  he 
would  go  out  into  the  world  and  search  for  her.  He 
was  only  eighteen  then,  and  of  a  strongly  susceptible 
temperament.  He  had  seen  nothing  of  the  world, 
for  even  when  living  in  London,  in  a  dingy  lodging, 
with  his  father,  he  had  been  perpetually  occupied 
with  books,  reading  much  and  seeing  little.  Then 
he  had  been  at  school,  but  he  had  seen  the  dark  side 
of  school  life  —  the  side  which  boys  who  are  known 
to  be  very  poor  generally  see ;  and  more  than  ever  he 
had  resorted  to  study  for  comfort  and  relief  from  out 
ward  ills.  Then  at  last  he  had  been  transferred  to  a 
serener  state  in  the  vicarage  of  Billingsfield  and  had 
grown  up  rapidly  from  a  schoolboy  to  a  young  man ; 
but,  as  has  been  said,  the  feminine  element  at  the 
vicarage  was  solely  represented  by  Mrs.  Ambrose  and 
the  monotony  of  her  maternal  society  was  varied  only 
by  the  occasional  visits  of  the  mild  young  Mrs.  Edward 


26  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

Pewlay.  John  Short  had  indeed  a  powerful  and  as 
piring  imagination,  but  it  would  have  been  impos 
sible  even  by  straining  that  faculty  to  its  utmost 
activity  to  think  in  the  same  breath  of  romance  and 
of  Mrs.  Ambrose,  for  even  in  her  youth  Mrs. 
Ambrose  had  not  been  precisely  a  romantic  character. 
John's  fancy  was  not  stimulated  by  his  surround 
ings,  but  it  fed  upon  itself  and  grew  fast  enough  to 
acquire  an  influence  over  everything  he  did.  It  was 
not  surprising  that,  when  at  last  chance  threw  in 
his  way  a  being  who  seemed  instantly  to  realise  and 
fulfil  his  wildest  dreams  of  beauty  and  feminine  fas 
cination,  he  should  have  yielded  without  a  struggle 
to  the  delicious  influence,  feeling  that  henceforth  his 
ideal  had  taken  shape  and  substance,  and  had  thereby 
become  more  than  ever  the  ideal  in  which  he  de 
lighted. 

He  gave  her  names,  a  dozen  of  them  every  day, 
christening  her  after  every  heroine  in  fiction  and 
history  of  whom  he  had  ever  read.  But  no  name 
seemed  to  suit  her  well  enough ;  whereupon  he  wrote 
a  Greek  ode  and  a  Latin  epistle  to  the  fair  unknown, 
but  omitted  to  show  them  to  the  Reverend  Augustin 
Ambrose,  though  he  was  quite  certain  that  they  were 
the  best  he  had  ever  produced.  Then  he  began  to 
write  a  novel,  but  suddenly  recollected  that  a  famous 
author  had  written  one  entitled  "No  Name,"  and  as 
that  was  the  only  title  he  could  possibly  give  to  the 
work  he  contemplated  he  of  course  had  no  choice  but 
to  abandon  the  work  itself.  He  wrote  more  verses, 
and  he  dreamed  more  dreams,  and  he  meanwhile  ac 
quired  much  learning  and  in  process  of  time  realised 
that  he  had  but  a  few  days  longer  to  stay  at  Billings- 
field.  The  Michaelmas  term  was  about  to  open  and 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  27 

he  must  bid  farewell  to  the  hospitable  roof  and  the 
learned  conversation  of  the  good  vicar.  But  when 
those  last  days  came  he  realised  that  he  was  leaving 
the  scene  of  his  only  dream,  and  his  heart  grew  sad. 

Indeed  he  loved  the  old  red  brick  vicarage  with  its 
low  porch,  overgrown  with  creepers,  its  fragrant  old 
flower  garden,  surrounding  it  on  three  sides,  its 
gabled  roof,  its  south  wall  whereon  the  vicar  con 
stantly  attempted  to  train  fig  trees,  maintaining  that 
the  climate  of  England  had  grown  warmer  and  that 
he  would  prove  it  —  John  loved  it  all,  and  especially 
he  loved  the  little  study,  lined  with  the  books  grown 
familiar  to  him,  and  the  study  door,  the  door  through 
which  he  had  seen  that  lovely  face  which  he  firmly 
believed  was  to  inspire  him  to  do  great  things  and 
to  influence  his  whole  life  for  ever  after.  He  would 
leave  the  door  open  and  place  himself  just  where  he 
had  sat  that  day,  and  then  he  would  look  suddenly 
up  with  beating  heart,  almost  fancying  he  could  again 
see  those  violet  eyes  gazing  at  him  from  the  dusky 
passage  —  blushing  then  to  himself,  like  any  girl, 
and  burying  himself  in  his  book  till  the  fancy  was 
grown  too  strong  and  he  looked  up  again.  He 
had  attempted  to  sketch  her  face  on  a  bit  of  paper; 
but  he  had  no  skill  and  he  thrust  the  drawing  into 
the  paper  basket,  horrified  at  having  made  anything 
so  hideous  in  the  effort  to  represent  anything  so 
beautiful,  and  returned  to  making  odes  upon  her, 
and  Latin  epistles,  in  which  he  succeeded  much 
better. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  leave 
all  this  dreaming,  or  at  least  the  scene  of  it,  and  go 
to  college  and  win  scholarships  and  renown.  It  was 
hard  to  go  and  he  showed  his  regret  so  plainly  that 


28        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  was  touched  at  what  she  took  for  his 
affection  for  the  place  and  for  herself  and  for  the 
vicar.  John  Short  was  indeed  very  grateful  to  her 
for  all  the  kindness  she  had  shown  him,  and  to  Mr. 
Ambrose  for  the  learning  he  had  acquired;  for  John 
was  a  fine  fellow  and  never  forgot  an  obligation  nor 
undervalued  one.  But  when  we  are  very  young  our 
hearts  are  far  more  easily  touched  to  joy  and  sadness 
by  the  chords  and  discords  of  our  own  dreaming, 
than  by  the  material  doings  of  the  world  around  us, 
or  by  the  strong  and  benevolent  interest  our  elders 
are  good  enough  to  take  in  us.  We  feel  grateful  to 
those  same  elders  if  we  have  any  good  in  us,  but 
we  are  far  from  feeling  a  similar  interest  in  them. 
We  see  in  our  imaginations  wonderful  pictures,  and 
we  hear  wonderful  words,  for  everything  we  dream 
of  partakes  of  an  unknown  perfection  and  completely 
throws  into  the  shade  the  inartistic  commonplaces  of 
daily  life.  As  John  Short  grew  older,  he  often 
regretted  the  society  of  his  old  tutor  and  in  the  fre 
quent  absence  of  important  buttons  from  his  raiment 
he  bitterly  realised  that  there  was  no  longer  a  motherly 
Mrs.  Ambrose  to  inspect  his  linen ;  but  when  he  took 
leave  of  them  what  hurt  him  most  was  to  turn  his 
back  upon  the  beloved  old  study,  upon  the  very  door 
through  which  he  had  once,  and  only  once,  beheld 
the  ideal  of  his  first  love  dream. 

Though  the  vicar  was  glad  to  see  the  boy  started 
upon  what  he  already  regarded  as  a  career  of  certain 
victory,  he  was  sorry  to  lose  him,  not  knowing  when 
he  should  see  him  again.  John  intended  to  read 
through  all  the  vacations  until  he  got  his  degree. 
He  might  indeed  have  come  down  for  a  day  or  two  at 
Christmas,  but  with  his  very  slender  resources  even 


A   TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  29 

so  short  a  pleasure  trip  was  not  to  be  thought  of 
lightly.  It  was  therefore  to  be  a  long  separation,  so 
long  to  look  forward  to  that  when  John  saw  the 
shabby  little  box  which  contained  all  his  worldly 
goods  put  up  into  the  back  of  the  vicar's  dogcart, 
and  stood  at  last  in  the  hall,  saying  good-bye,  he  felt 
as  though  he  was  being  thrust  out  into  the  world 
never  to  return  again ;  his  heart  seemed  to  rise  in  his 
throat,  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  and  he  could  hardly 
speak  a  word.  Even  then  he  thought  of  that  day 
when  he  had  waked  up  the  sleepy  Muggins  to  take 
away  the  beautiful  unknown  lady.  He  felt  he  must 
be  quick  about  his  leave-taking,  or  he  would  break 
down. 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I  —  I  shall 
never  forget  it,"  he  murmured  as  he  shook  hands 
with  Mrs.  Ambrose.  "And  you,  too,  sir  — "  he 
added  turning  to  the  vicar.  But  the  old  clergyman 
cut  him  short,  being  himself  rather  uncertain  about 
the  throat. 

"Good-bye,  my  lad.  God  bless  you.  We  shall 
hear  of  you  soon  —  showing  them  what  you  can  do 
with  your  Alcaics  —  Good-bye." 

So  John  got  into  the  dogcart  and  was  driven  off 
by  the  ancient  Reynolds  —  past  the  "Duke's  Head," 
past  the  "Feathers,"  past  the  churchyard  and  the 
croft  —  the  "croat,"  they  called  it  in  Billingsfield 
—  and  on  by  the  windmill  on  the  heath,  a  hideous 
bit  of  grassless  common  euphemistically  so  named, 
and  so  out  to  the  high-road  towards  the  railway 
station,  feeling  very  miserable  indeed.  It  is  a  curi 
ous  fact,  too,  in  the  history  of  his  psychology  that  in 
proportion  as  he  got  farther  from  the  vicarage  he 
thought  more  and  more  of  his  old  tutor  and  less  and 


30        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

less  of  his  unfinished  dream,  and  he  realised  pain 
fully  that  the  vicar  was  nearly  the  only  friend  he 
had  in  the  world.  He  would  of  course  find  Corne 
lius  Angleside  at  Cambridge,  but  he  suspected  that 
Cornelius,  turned  loose  among  a  merry  band  of  un 
dergraduates  of  his  own  position  would  be  a  very 
different  person  from  the  idle  youth  he  had  known 
at  Billingsfield,  trembling  in  the  intervals  of  his  idle 
ness  at  the  awful  prospect  of  the  entrance  examina 
tion,  and  frantically  attempting  to  master  some  bit 
of  stray  knowledge  which  might  possibly  be  useful 
to  him.  Cornelius  would  hunt,  would  gamble,  would 
go  to  the  races  and  would  give  wines  at  college; 
John  was  to  be  a  reading  man  who  must  avoid  such 
things  as  he  would  avoid  the  devil  himself,  not  only 
because  he  was  too  wretchedly  poor  to  have  any  share 
whatever  in  the  amusements  of  Cornelius  and  his  set, 
but  because  every  minute  was  important,  every  hour 
meant  not  only  learning  but  meant,  most  emphati 
cally,  money.  He  thought  of  his  poor  father,  grinding 
out  the  life  of  a  literary  hack  in  a  wretched  London 
lodging,  dining  Heaven  knew  where  and  generally 
supping  not  at  all,  saving  every  penny  to  help  his 
son's  education,  hard  working,  honest,  lacking  no 
virtue  except  the  virtue  of  all  virtues  —  success. 
Then  he  thought  how  he  himself  had  been  favoured 
by  fortune  during  these  last  years,  living  under  the 
vicar's  roof,  treated  with  the  same  consideration  as 
the  high-born  young  gentlemen  who  had  been  his  com 
panions,  living  well,  sleeping  well  and  getting  the 
best  education  in  England  for  nothing  or  next  to 
nothing,  while  that  same  father  of  his  had  never 
ceased  to  slave  day  and  night  with  his  pen,  honestly 
doing  his  best  and  yet  enjoying  none  of  the  good 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  31 

things  of  life.  John  thought  of  all  this  and  set  his 
teeth  boldly  to  face  the  world.  A  few  months,  he 
thought,  and  he  might  have  earned  a  scholarship  — 
he  might  be  independent.  Then  a  little  longer  — 
less  than  three  years  —  and  he  might,  nay,  he  would, 
take  high  honours  in  the  university  and  come  back 
crowned  with  glory,  with  the  prospect  of  a  fellow 
ship,  with  every  profession  open  to  him,  with  the 
world  at  his  feet  and  with  money  in  his  hand  to 
help  his  father  out  of  all  his  troubles. 

That  was  how  John  Short  went  to  Trinity.  It 
was  a  hard  struggle  at  first,  for  he  found  himself 
much  poorer  than  he  had  imagined,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  the  ends  could  not  possibly  meet.  There 
was  no  question  of  denying  himself  luxuries;  that 
would  have  been  easy  enough.  In  those  first  months 
it  was  the  necessities  that  he  lacked,  the  coals  for  his 
little  grate,  the  oil  for  his  one  small  lamp.  But  he 
fought  bravely  through  it,  having,  like  many  another 
young  fellow  who  has  weathered  the  storms  of  poverty 
in  pursuit  of  learning,  an  iron  constitution,  and  an 
even  stronger  will.  He  used  to  say  long  afterwards 
that  feeling  cold  was  a  mere  habit  and  that  when  one 
thoroughly  understood  the  construction  of  Greek 
verses,  some  stimulus  of  physical  discomfort  was 
necessary  to  make  the  imagination  work  well;  in 
support  of  which  assertion  he  said  that  he  had  never 
done  such  good  things  by  the  comfortable  fire  in  the 
study  at  Billingsfield  vicarage  as  he  did  afterwards 
on  winter  nights  by  the  light  of  a  tallow  candle,  high 
up  in  Neville's  Court.  Moreover,  if  any  one  argued 
that  it  was  better  for  an  extremely  poor  man  not  to 
go  to  Trinity,  but  to  some  much  smaller  college,  he 
answered  that  as  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned  he 


32        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

could  not  have  done  better,  which  was  quite  true  and 
therefore  perfectly  unanswerable.  Where  the  com 
petition  was  less,  he  would  have  been  satisfied  with 
less,  he  said;  where  it  was  greatest  a  man  could  only 
be  contented  when  he  had  reached  the  highest  point 
possible.  But  before  he  attained  his  end  he  suffered 
more  than  any  one  knew,  especially  during  those 
first  months.  For  when  he  had  got  his  first  scholar 
ship,  he  insisted  upon  sending  back  the  little  sums 
of  hard-earned  money  his  father  sent  him  from  time 
to  time,  and  he  consequently  had  nearly  as  hard  work 
as  before  to  keep  himself  warm  and  to  keep  oil  in  his 
lamp  during  the  long  winter's  evenings.  But  he 
succeeded,  nevertheless. 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PAKISH.  33 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  the  month  of  October  of  that  year,  a  short 
time  after  John  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  Trinity 
College,  an  event  occurred  which  shook  Billings- 
field  to  its  foundations;  no  less  an  event  than  the 
occupation  of  the  dwelling  known  as  the  "cottage." 
What  the  cottage  was  will  appear  hereafter.  The 
arrival  of  the  new  tenants  occurred  in  the  following 
manner. 

The  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose  received  a  let 
ter,  which  he  immediately  showed  to  his  wife,  as  he 
showed  most  of  his  correspondence ;  for  he  was  of  the 
disposition  which  may  be  termed  wife-consulting. 
Married  men  are  generally  of  two  kinds ;  those  who 
tell  their  wives  everything  and  those  who  tell  them 
nothing.  It  is  evident  that  the  relative  merits  of  the 
two  systems  depend  chiefly  upon  the  relative  merits 
of  the  wives  in  question.  Mr.  Ambrose  had  no 
doubt  of  the  advantages  of  his  own  method  and  he 
carried  it  to  its  furthest  expression,  for  he  never  did 
anything  whatever  without  consulting  his  better 
half.  On  the  whole  the  plan  worked  well,  for  the 
vicar  had  learning  and  his  wife  had  common  sense. 
He  therefore  showed  the  letter  to  her  and  she  read 
it,  and  read  it  again,  and  finally  put  it  away,  writing 
across  the  envelope  in  her  own  large,  clear  hand  the 
words  —  Goddard,  Cottage  —  indicative  of  the  con 
tents. 


34  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"My  DEAR  SIR  —  It  is  now  nearly  five  months 
since  I  saw  you  last.  Need  I  tell  you  that  the  sense 
of  your  kindness  is  still  fresh  in  my  memory?  You 
do  not  know,  indeed  you  cannot  know,  what  an 
impression  your  goodness  made  upon  me.  You 
showed  me  that  I  was  acting  rightly.  It  has  been 
so  hard  to  act  rightly.  Of  course  you  quite  under 
stand  what  I  mean.  I  cannot  refer  to  the  great  sor 
row  which  has  overtaken  me  and  my  dear  innocent 
little  Nellie.  There  is  no  use  in  referring  to  it,  for  I 
have  told  you  all.  You  allowed  me  to  unburden  my 
heart  to  you  during  my  brief  visit,  and  ever  since 
that  day  I  have  felt  very  much,  I  may  say  infinitely, 
relieved. 

"I  am  again  about  to  ask  you  a  favour;  I  trust 
indeed  that  I  am  not  asking  too  much,  but  I  know 
by  experience  how  kind  you  are  and  so  I  am  not 
afraid  to  ask  this  too.  Do  you  remember  speaking 
to  me  of  the  little  cottage?  The  picture  you  drew 
of  it  quite  charmed  me,  and  I  have  determined  to 
take  it,  that  is,  if  it  is  still  to  be  let  and  if  it  is  not 
asking  quite  too  much  of  you.  I  mean,  if  you  will 
take  it  for  me.  You  cannot  think  how  grateful  I 
shall  be  and  I  enclose  a  cheque.  I  am  almost  sure 
you  said  thirty-six  pounds.  It  was  thirty-six,  was 
it  not?  The  reason  I  venture  to  enclose  the  money 
is  because  you  are  so  very  kind,  but  of  course  you  do 
not  know  anything  certain  about  me.  But  I  am  sure 
you  will  understand.  You  said  you  were  sure  I 
could  live  with  my  little  girl  in  Billingsfield  for 
three  hundred  a  year.  I  find  I  have  a  little  more,  in 
fact  nearly  five  hundred.  If  you  tell  me  that  I  can 
have  the  cottage,  I  will  come  down  at  once,  for  town 
is  very  dreary  and  we  have  been  here  all  summer 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  35 

except  a  week  at  Margate.  Let  me  thank  you  again, 
you  have  been  so  very  kind,  and  believe  me,  my  dear 
sir,  very  sincerely  yours, 

"MARY  GODDARD." 

"Augustin,  my  dear,  this  is  very  exciting,"  said 
Mrs.  Ambrose,  as  she  handed  the  cheque  to  her  hus 
band  for  inspection  and  returned  the  letter  to  its 
envelope,  preparatory  to  marking  it  for  future  refer 
ence;  and  when,  as  has  been  said,  she  had  written 
upon  the  outside  the  words  —  Goddard,  Cottage,  and 
had  put  it  away  she  turned  upon  her  husband  with 
an  inquiring  manner  peculiar  to  her.  Mr.  Ambrose 
was  standing  before  the  window,  looking  out  at  the 
rain  and  occasionally  glancing  at  the  cheque  he  still 
held  in  his  hand. 

"Just  like  a  woman  to  send  a  cheque  to  'bearer' 
through  the  post,"  he  remarked,  severely.  "How 
ever  since  I  have  got  it,  it  is  all  right." 

"I  don't  think  it  is  all  right,  Augustin,"  said  his 
wife.  "We  are  taking  a  great  responsibility  in 
bringing  her  into  the  parish.  I  am  quite  sure  she  is 
a  dissenter  or  a  Romanist  or  something  dreadful,  to 
begin  with." 

"My  dear,"  answered  the  vicar,  mildly,  "you  make 
very  uncharitable  suppositions.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  most  one  can  say  of  her  is  that  she  is  very  un 
happy  and  that  she  does  not  write  very  good  English." 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  very  unhappy.  But 
as  you  say  we  must  not  be  uncharitable.  I  suppose 
you  will  have  to  write  about  the  cottage." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose  doubtfully.  "I 
cannot  send  her  back  the  money,  and  the  cottage  is 
certainly  to  let." 


36  A  TALE  OP   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

He  deposited  the  cheque  in  the  drawer  of  his  writ 
ing-table  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room, 
glancing  up  from  time  to  time  at  his  wife  who  was 
lifting  one  after  another  the  ornaments  which  stood 
upon  the  chimney-piece,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether 
Susan  had  dusted  underneath  them.  She  had  many 
ways  of  assuring  herself  that  people  did  their  work 
properly. 

"No,"  said  she,  "you  cannot  send  her  back  the 
money.  But  it  is  a  very  solemn  responsibility.  I 
hope  we  are  doing  quite  right." 

"I  certainly  would  not  hesitate  to  return  the 
cheque,  my  dear,  if  I  thought  any  harm  would  come 
of  Mrs.  Goddard's  living  here.  But  I  don't  think 
there  is  any  reason  to  doubt  her  story." 

"  Of  course  not.  It  was  in  the  Standard,  so  there 
is  no  doubt  about  it.  I  only  hope  no  one  else  reads 
the  papers  here." 

"They  read  them  in  the  kitchen,"  added  Mrs. 
Ambrose  presently,  "and  they  probably  take  a  paper 
at  the  Duke's  Head.  Mr.  Boosey  is  rather  a  literary 
character." 

"Nobody  will  suppose  it  was  that  Goddard,  my 
dear,"  said  the  vicar  in  a  reassuring  tone  of  voice. 

"No  —  you  had  better  write  about  the  cottage.'' 

"I  will,"  said  the  vicar;  and  he  forthwith  did. 
And  moreover,  with  his  usual  willingness  to  give 
himself  trouble  for  other  people,  he  took  a  vast  deal 
of  pains  to  see  that  the  cottage  was  really  habitable. 
It  turned  out  to  be  in  very  good  condition.  It  was 
a  pretty  place  enough,  standing  ten  yards  back  from 
the  road,  beyond  the  village,  just  opposite  the  gates 
of  the  park ;  a  little  square  house  of  red  brick  with 
a  high  pointed  roof  and  a  little  garden.  The  walls 


A  TALE  OF   A   LOXELY   PARISH.  37 

were  overgrown  with  creepers  which  had  once  been 
trained  with  considerable  care,  but  which  during  the 
last  two  years  had  thriven  in  untrimmed  luxuriance 
and  now  covered  the  whole  of  the  side  of  the  house 
which  faced  the  road.  So  thickly  did  they  grow  that 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  windows  could  at  first 
be  opened.  The  vicar  sighed  as  he  entered  the  dark 
ened  rooms.  His  daughter  had  lived  in  the  cottage 
when  she  first  married  the  young  doctor  who  had 
now  gone  to  London,  and  the  vicar  had  been,  and 
was,  very  fond  of  his  daughter.  He  had  almost 
despaired  of  ever  seeing  her  again  in  Billingsfield; 
the  only  glimpses  of  her  he  could  obtain  were  got  by 
going  himself  to  town,  for  the  doctor  was  so  busy 
that  he  always  put  off  the  projected  visit  to  the  coun 
try  and  his  wife  was  so  fond  of  him  that  she  refused 
to  go  alone.  The  vicar  sighed  as  he  forced  open  the 
windows  upon  the  lower  floor  and  let  the  light  into 
the  bare  and  empty  rooms  which  had  once  been  so 
bright  and  full  of  happiness.  He  wondered  what 
sort  of  person  Mrs.  Goddard  would  turn  out  to  be 
upon  nearer  acquaintance,  and  made  vague,  uncon 
scious  conjectures  about  her  furniture  as  he  stumbled 
up  the  dark  stairs  to  the  upper  story. 

He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt.  The  arrangements 
were  easily  concluded,  for  the  cottage  belonged  to 
the  estate  in  Chancery  and  the  lawyer  in  charge  was 
very  busy  with  other  matters.  The  guarantee 
afforded  by  the  vicar's  personal  application,  together 
with  the  payment  of  a  year's  rent  in  advance  so  far 
facilitated  matters  that  four  days  after  she  had  written 
to  Mr.  Ambrose  the  latter  informed  Mrs.  Goddard 
that  she  was  at  liberty  to  take  possession.  The 
vicar  suggested  that  the  Billingsfield  carrier,  who 


38  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

drove  his  cart  to  London  once  a  week,  could  bring 
her  furniture  down  in  two  trips  and  save  her  a  con 
siderable  expense;  Mrs.  Goddard  accepted  this  ad 
vice  and  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight  was  installed 
with  all  her  goods  in  the  cottage.  Having  completed 
her  arrangements  at  last,  she  came  to  call  upon  the 
vicar's  wife. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  changed  since  she  had  first 
visited  Billingsfield,  five  months  earlier,  though 
little  Eleanor  had  grown  taller  and  was  if  possible 
prettier  than  ever.  Something  of  the  character  of 
the  lady  in  black  may  have  been  gathered  from  the 
style  of  her  letter  to  Mr.  Ambrose ;  that  communica 
tion  had  impressed  the  vicar's  wife  unfavourably 
and  had  drawn  from  her  husband  a  somewhat  com 
passionate  remark  about  the  bad  English  it  contained. 
Nevertheless  when  Mrs.  Goddard  came  to  live  in 
Billingsfield  the  Ambroses  soon  discovered  that  she 
was  a  very  well-educated  woman,  that  she  appeared 
to  have  read  much  and  to  have  read  intelligently, 
and  that  she  was  on  the  whole  decidedly  interesting. 
It  was  long,  however,  before  Mrs.  Ambrose  entirely 
conquered  a  certain  antipathy  she  felt  for  her,  and 
which  she  explained  after  her  own  fashion.  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  not  a  dissenter  and  she  was  not  a 
Romanist;  on  the  contrary  she  appeared  to  be  a  very 
good  churchwoman.  She  paid  her  bills  regularly 
and  never  gave  anybody  any  trouble.  She  visited 
the  vicarage  at  stated  intervals,  and  the  vicarage 
graciously  returned  her  visits.  The  vicar  himself 
even  went  to  the  cottage  more  often  than  Mrs. 
Ambrose  thought  strictly  necessary,  for  the  vicar  was 
strongly  prejudiced  in  her  favour.  But  Mrs.  Am 
brose  did  not .  share  that  prejudice.  Mrs.  Goddard, 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  39 

she  said,  was  too  effusive,  talked  too  much  about 
herself  and  her  troubles,  did  not  look  thoroughly 
straightforward,  probably  had  foreign  blood.  Ay, 
there  was  the  rub  —  Mrs.  Ambrose  suspected  that 
Mrs.  Goddard  was  not  quite  English.  If  she  was 
not,  why  did  she  not  say  so,  and  be  done  with  it? 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  English,  nevertheless,  and 
would  have  been  very  much  surprised  could  she  have 
guessed  the  secret  cause  of  the  slight  coldness  she 
sometimes  observed  in  the  manner  of  the  clergyman's 
wife  towards  her.  She  herself,  poor  thing,  believed 
it  was  because  she  was  in  trouble,  and  considering 
the  nature  of  the  disaster  which  had  befallen  her, 
she  was  not  surprised.  She  was  rather  a  weak 
woman,  rather  timid,  and  if  she  talked  a  little  too 
much  sometimes  it  was  because  she  felt  embarrassed ; 
there  were  times,  too,  when  she  was  very  silent  and 
sad.  She  had  been  very  happy  and  the  great  catas 
trophe  had  overtaken  her  suddenly,  leaving  her  abso 
lutely  without  friends.  She  wanted  to  be  hidden 
from  the  world,  and  by  one  of  those  strange  con 
trasts  often  found  in  weak  people  she  had  suddenly 
made  a  very  bold  resolution  and  had  successfully  car 
ried  it  out.  She  had  come  straight  to  a  man  she  had 
never  seen,  but  whom  she  knew  very  well  by  repu 
tation,  and  had  told  him  her  story  and  asked  him  to 
help  her;  and  she  had  not  come  in  vain.  The  per 
son  who  advised  her  to  go  to  the  Reverend  Augustin 
Ambrose  knew  that  there  was  not  a  better  man  to 
whom  she  could  apply.  She  had  found  what  she 
wanted,  a  sort  of  deserted  village  where  she  would 
never  be  obliged  to  meet  any  one,  since  there  was 
absolutely  no  society;  she  had  found  a  good  man 
upon  whom  she  felt  she  could  rely  in  case  of  further 


40  A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH. 

difficulty ;  and  she  had  not  come  upon  false  pretences, 
for  she  had  told  her  whole  story  quite  frankly.  For 
a  woman  who  was  naturally  timid  she  had  done  a 
thing  requiring  considerable  courage,  and  she  was 
astonished  at  her  own  boldness  after  she  had  done 
it.  But  in  her  peaceful  retreat,  she  reflected  that  she 
could  not  possibly  have  left  England,  as  many  women 
in  her  position  would  have  done,  simply  because  the 
idea  of  exile  was  intolerable  to  her ;  she  reflected  also 
that  if  she  had  settled  in  any  place  where  there  was 
any  sort  of  society  her  story  would  one  day  have 
become  known,  and  that  if  she  had  spent  years  in 
studying  her  situation  she  could  not  have  done  bet 
ter  than  in  going  boldly  to  the  vicar  of  Billingsfield 
and  explaining  her  sad  position  to  him.  She  had 
found  a  haven  of  rest  after  many  months  of  terrible 
anxiety  and  she  hoped  that  she  might  end  her  days 
in  peace  and  in  the  spot  she  had  chosen.  But  she 
was  very  young  —  not  thirty  years  of  age  yet  —  and 
her  little  girl  would  soon  grow  up  —  and  then  ?  Evi 
dently  her  dream  of  peace  was  likely  to  be  of  limited 
duration ;  but  she  resigned  herself  to  the  unpleasant 
possibilities  of  the  future  with  a  good  grace,  in  con 
sideration  of  the  advantages  she  enjoyed  in  the 
present. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  was  at  home  when  Mrs.  Goddard 
and  little  Eleanor  came  to  the  vicarage.  Indeed  Mrs. 
Ambrose  was  rarely  out  in  the  afternoon,  unless 
something  very  unusual  called  her  away.  She  re 
ceived  her  visitor  with  the  stern  hospitality  she 
exercised  towards  strangers.  The  strangers  she  saw 
were  generally  the  near  relations  of  the  young  gen 
tlemen  whom  her  husband  received  for  educational 
purposes.  She  stood  in  the  front  drawing-room, 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.        41 

that  is  to  say,  in  the  most  impressive  chamber  of  that 
fortress  which  is  an  Englishman's  house.  It  was  a 
formal  room,  arranged  by  a  fixed  rule  and  the  order 
of  it  was  maintained  inflexibly;  no  event  could  be 
imagined  of  such  terrible  power  as  to  have  caused 
the  displacement  of  one  of  those  chairs,  of  one  of 
those  ornaments  upon  the  chimney-piece,  of  one  of 
those  engravings  upon  the  walls.  The  walls  were 
papered  with  one  shade  of  green,  the  furniture  was 
covered  with  material  of  another  shade  of  green  and 
the  well-spared  carpet  exhibited  still  a  third  variety 
of  the  same  colour.  Mrs.  Ambrose's  sense  of  order 
did  not  extend  to  the  simplest  forms  of  artistic  har 
mony,  but  when  it  had  an  opportunity  of  impressing 
itself  upon  inanimate  objects  which  were  liable  to 
be  moved,  washed  or  dusted,  its  effects  were  formi 
dable  indeed.  She  worshipped  neatness  and  clean 
liness  ;  she  left  the  question  of  taste  to  others.  And 
now  she  stood  in  the  keep  of  her  stronghold,  the 
impersonation  of  moral  rectitude  and  of  practical 
housekeeping. 

Mrs.  Goddard  entered  rather  timidly,  followed  by 
little  Eleanor  whose  ideas  had  been  so  much  dis 
turbed  by  the  recent  change  in  her  existence,  that  she 
had  grown  unusually  silent  and  her  great  violet  eyes 
were  unceasingly  opened  wide  to  take  in  the  grow 
ing  wonders  of  her  situation.  Mrs.  Goddard  was 
still  dressed  in  black,  as  when  John  Short  had  seen 
her  five  months  earlier.  There  was  something  a  lit 
tle  peculiar  in  her  mourning,  though  Mrs.  Ambrose 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  define  the  peculiarity. 
Some  people  would  have  said  that  if  she  was  really 
a  widow  her  gown  fitted  a  little  too  well,  her  bonnet 
was  a  little  too  small,  her  veil  a  little  too  short. 


42  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  supposed  that  those  points  were  sug 
gested  by  the  latest  fashions  in  London  and  summed 
up  the  difficulty  by  surmising  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had 
foreign  blood, 

"I  should  have  called  before,"  said  the  latter, 
deeply  impressed  by  the  severe  appearance  of  the 
vicar's  wife,  "  but  I  have  been  so  busy  putting  my 
things  into  the  cottage  —  " 

"Pray  don't  think  of  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Ambrose. 
Then  she  added  after  a  pause,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you."  She  appeared  to  have  been  weighing  in  her 
conscience  the  question  whether  she  could  truthfully 
say  so  or  not.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  was  grateful  for 
the  smallest  advances. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "you  are  so  very  kind. 
Will  you  tell  Mr.  Ambrose  how  thankful  I  am  for 
his  kind  assistance?  Yes,  Nellie  and  I  have  had 
hard  work  in  moving,  have  not  we,  dear?"  She 
drew  the  beautiful  child  close  to  her  and  gazed  lov 
ingly  into  her  eyes.  But  Nellie  was  shy;  she  hid 
her  face  on  her  mother's  shoulder,  and  then  looked 
doubtfully  at  Mrs.  Ambrose,  and  then  hid  herself 
again. 

"How  old  is  your  little  girl?"  asked  Mrs.  Am 
brose  more  kindly.  She  was  fond  of  children,  and 
actually  pitied  any  child  whose  mother  perhaps  had 
foreign  blood. 

"  Eleanor  —  I  call  her  Nellie  —  is  eight  years  old. 
She  will  be  nine  in  January.  She  is  tall  for  her 
age,"  added  Mrs.  Goddard  with  affectionate  pride. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  Nellie  was  small  for  her  years, 
and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  who  was  the  most  truthful  of 
women,  felt  that  she  could  not  conscientiously  agree 
in  calling  her  tall.  She  changed  the  subject. 


A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  43 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  very  quiet  in  Bil- 
lingsfield,"  she  said  presently. 

"Oh,  I  am  used  —  that  is,  I  prefer  a  very  quiet 
place.  I  want  to  live  very  quietly  for  some  years, 
indeed  I  hope  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Besides  it 
will  be  so  good  for  Nellie  to  live  in  the  country  — 
she  will  grow  so  strong." 

"She  looks  very  well,  I  am  sure,"  answered  Mrs. 
Ambrose  rather  bluntly,  looking  at  the  child's 
clear  complexion  and  bright  eyes.  "And  have  you 
always  lived  in  town  until  now,  Mrs.  Goddard?" 
she  asked. 

"  Oh  no,  not  always,  but  most  of  the  year,  perhaps. 
Indeed  I  think  so."  Mrs.  Goddard  felt  nervous 
before  the  searching  glance  of  the  elder  woman. 
Mrs.  Ambrose  concluded  that  she  was  not  absolutely 
s  t  r  a  igh  tf  or  war  d . 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  make  the  cottage  comfort 
able?"  asked  the  vicar's  wife,  seeing  that  the  con 
versation  languished. 

"Oh,  I  think  so,"  answered  her  visitor,  glad  to 
change  the  subject,  and  suddenly  becoming  very 
voluble  as  she  had  previously  been  very  shy.  "  It  is 
really  a  charming  little  place.  Of  course  it  is  not 
very  large,  but  as  we  have  not  got  very  many  belong 
ings  that  is  all  the  better;  and  the  garden  is  small 
but  extremely  pretty  and  wild,  and  the  kitchen  is 
very  convenient ;  really  I  quite  wonder  how  the  peo 
ple  wTho  built  it  could  have  made  it  all  so  comfort 
able.  You  see  there  are  one  —  two  —  the  pantry, 
the  kitchen  and  two  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  and 
plenty  of  room  upstairs  for  everybody,  and  as  for  the 
sun!  it  streams  into  all  the  windows  at  once  from 
morning  till  night.  And  such  a  pretty  view,  too, 


44  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

of  that  old  gate  opposite  —  where  does  it  lead  to, 
Mrs.  Ambrose?  It  is  so  very  pretty." 

"It  leads  to  the  park  and  the  Hall,"  answered 
Mrs.  Ambrose. 

"Oh  —  "  Mrs.  Goddard's  tone  changed.  "But 
nobody  lives  there?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Oh  no  —  it  is  in  Chancery,  you  know." 

"What  —  what  is  that,  exactly?"  asked  Mrs. 
Goddard,  timidly.  "  Is  there  a  young  heir  waiting 
to  grow  up  —  I  mean  waiting  to  take  possession?" 

"  No.  There  is  a  suit  about  it.  It  has  been  going 
on  for  forty  years  my  husband  says,  and  they  cannot 
decide  to  whom  it  belongs." 

"I  see,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard.  "I  suppose 
they  will  never  decide  now." 

"Probably  not  for  some  time." 

"  It  must  be  a  very  pretty  place.  Can  one  go  in, 
do  you  think  ?  I  am  so  fond  of  trees  —  what  a 
beautiful  garden  you  have  yourself,  Mrs.  Ambrose." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  it?"  asked  the  vicar's 
wife,  anxious  to  bring  the  visit  to  a  conclusion. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  —  of  all  things !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Goddard.  "Would  not  you  like  to  run  about  the 
garden,  Nellie?" 

The  little  girl  nodded  slowly  and  stared  at  Mrs. 
Ambrose. 

"My  husband  is  a  very  good  gardener,"  said  the 
latter,  leading  the  way  out  to  the  hall.  "And  so 
was  John  Short,  but  he  has  left  us,  you  know." 

"Who  was  John  Short?"  asked  Mrs.  Goddard 
rather  absently,  as  she  watched  Mrs.  Ambrose  who 
was  wrapping  herself  in  a  huge  blue  waterproof  cloak 
and  tying  a  sort  of  worsted  hood  over  her  head. 

"He  was  one  of  the  boys  Mr.  Ambrose  prepared 


A  TALE   OF  A   LONELY  PARISH.  45 

for  college  —  such  a  good  fellow.  You  may  have 
seen  him  when  you  came  last  June,  Mrs.  Goddard?" 

"  Had  he  very  bright  blue  eyes  —  a  nice  face  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  that  is,  it  might  have  been  Mr.  Angleside 
—  Lord  Scatterbeigh's  son  —  he  was  here,  too." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "perhaps  it  was." 

"Mamma,"  asked  little  Nellie,  "what  is  Laws 
Catterbay?" 

"A  peer,  darling." 

"Like  the  one  at  Brighton,  mamma,  with  a  band?" 

"No,  child,"  answered  the  mother  laughing.  "P, 
double  E,  R,  peer  —  a  rich  gentleman." 

"Like  poor  papa  then?"  inquired  the  irrepressible 
Eleanor. 

Mrs.  Goddard  turned  pale  and  pressed  the  little  girl 
close  to  her  side,  leaning  down  to  whisper  in  her  ear. 

"  You  must  not  ask  foolish  questions,  darling  —  I 
will  tell  you  by  and  by." 

"Papa  was  a  rich  gentleman,"  objected  the  child. 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  Mrs.  Ambrose,  and  the 
ready  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  The  vicar's  wife 
smiled  kindly  and  took  little  Nellie  by  the  hand. 

"Come,  dear,"  she  said  in  the  motherly  tone  that 
was  natural  to  her  when  she  was  not  receiving  vis 
itors.  "  Come  and  see  the  garden  and  you  can  play 
with  Carlo." 

"Can't  I  see  Laws  Catterbay,  too?"  asked  the  lit 
tle  girl  rather  wistfully. 

"Carlo  is  a  great,  big,  brown  dog,"  said  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  leading  the  child  out  into  the  garden, 
while  Mrs.  Goddard  followed  close  behind.  Before 
they  had  gone  far  they  came  upon  the  vicar,  arrayed 
in  an  old  coat,  his  hands  thrust  into  a  pair  of  gigan 
tic  gardening  gloves  and  a  battered  old  felt  hat  upon 


46  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

his  head.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  felt  rather  uncomfort 
able  in  the  impressive  society  of  Mrs.  Ambrose  and 
the  sight  of  the  vicar's  genial  face  was  reassuring  in 
the  extreme.  She  was  not  disappointed,  for  he 
immediately  relieved  the  situation  by  asking  all 
manner  of  kindly  questions,  interspersed  with  re 
marks  upon  his  garden,  while  Mrs.  Ambrose  intro 
duced  little  Nellie  to  the  acquaintance  of  Carlo  who 
had  not  seen  so  pretty  a  little  girl  for  many  a  day, 
and  capered  and  wagged  his  feathery  tail  in  a  man 
ner  most  unseemly  for  so  clerical  a  dog. 

So  it  came  about  that  Mrs.  Goddard  established 
herself  at  Billingsfield  and  made  her  first  visit  to 
the  vicarage.  After  that  the  ice  was  broken  and 
things  went  on  smoothly  enough.  Mrs.  Ambrose's 
hints  concerning  foreign  blood,  and  her  husband's 
invariable  remonstrance  to  the  effect  that  she  ought 
to  be  more  charitable,  grew  more  and  more  rare  as 
time  went  on,  and  finally  ceased  altogether.  Mrs. 
Goddard  became  a  regular  institution,  and  ceased  to 
astonish  the  inhabitants.  Mr.  Thomas  Reid,  the 
sexton,  was  heard  to  remark  from  time  to  time  that 
he  "didn't  hold  with  th'm  newfangle  fashins  in 
dress ; "  but  he  was  a  regular  old  conservative,  and 
most  people  agreed  with  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey  of  the 
Duke's  Head,  who  had  often  been  to  London,  and 
who  said  she  did  "look  just  A  one,  slap  up,  she  did!  " 

Mrs.  Goddard  became  an  institution,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  first  year  of  her  residence  in  the  cottage 
it  came  to  be  expected  that  she  should  dine  at  the 
vicarage  at  least  once  a  week ;  and  once  a  week,  also, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  went  up  and  had  tea  with 
her  and  little  Eleanor  at  the  cottage.  It  came  to 
pass  also  that  Mrs.  Goddard  heard  a  vast  deal  of  talk 
about  John  Short  and  his  successes  at  Trinity,  and 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  47 

she  actually  developed  a  lively  interest  in  his  career, 
and  asked  for  news  of  him  almost  as  eagerly  as 
though  he  had  been  already  a  friend  of  her  own. 
In  very  quiet  places  people  easily  get  into  the  sym 
pathetic  habit  of  regarding  their  neighbours'  inter 
ests  as  very  closely  allied  to  their  own.  The  constant 
talk  about  John  Short,  the  vicar's  sanguine  hopes  for 
his  brilliant  future,  and  Mrs.  Ambrose's  unlimited 
praise  of  his  moral  qualities,  repeated  day  by  day  and 
week  by  week  produced  a  vivid  impression  on  Mrs. 
Goddard's  mind.  It  would  have  surprised  her  and 
even  amused  her  beyond  measure  had  she  had  any 
idea  that  she  herself  had  for  a  long  time  absorbed  the 
interest  of  this  same  John  Short,  that  he  had  written 
hundreds  of  Greek  and  Latin  verses  in  her  praise, 
while  wholly  ignorant  of  her  name,  and  that  at  the 
very  time  when  without  knowing  him,  she  was  con 
stantly  mentioning  him  as  though  she  knew  him 
intimately  well,  he  himself  was  looking  back  to  the 
one  glimpse  he  had  had  of  her,  as  to  a  dream  of  un 
speakable  bliss. 

It  never  occurred  to  Mr.  Ambrose's  mind  to  tell 
John  in  the  occasional  letters  he  wrote  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  had  settled  in  Billingsfield.  John,  he 
thought,  could  take  no  possible  interest  in  knowing 
about  her,  and  moreover,  Mrs.  Goddard  herself  was 
most  anxious  never  to  be  mentioned  abroad.  She 
had  come  to  Billingsfield  to  live  in  complete  obscu 
rity,  and  the  good  vicar  had  promised  that  as  far  as 
he  and  his  wife  were  concerned  she  should  have  her 
wish.  To  tell  even  John  Short,  his  own  beloved 
pupil,  would  be  to  some  extent  a  breach  of  faith,  and 
there  was  assuredly  no  earthly  reason  why  John 
should  be  told.  It  might  do  harm,  for  of  course  the 
young  fellow  had  made  acquaintances  at  Cambridge ; 


48  A   TALE   OP   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

he  had  probably  read  about  the  Goddard  case  in  the 
papers,  and  might  talk  about  it.  If  he  should  hap 
pen  to  come  down  for  a  day  or  two  he  would  probably 
meet  her;  but  that  could  not  be  avoided.  It  was 
not  likely  that  he  would  come  for  some  time.  The 
vicar  himself  intended  to  go  up  to  Cambridge  for  a 
day  or  two  after  Christmas  to  see  him;  but  the 
winter  flew  by  and  Mr.  Ambrose  did  not  go.  Then 
came  Easter,  then  the  summer  and  the  Long  vaca 
tion.  John  wrote  that  he  could  not  leave  his  books 
for  a  day,  but  that  he  hoped  to  run  down  next  Christ 
mas.  Again  he  did  not  come,  but  there  came  the 
news  of  his  having  won  another  and  a  more  important 
scholarship;  the  news  also  that  he  was  already  re 
garded  as  the  most  promising  man  in  the  university, 
all  of  which  exceedingly  delighted  the  heart  of  the 
Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose,  and  being  told  with 
eulogistic  comments  to  Mrs.  Goddard,  tended  to 
increase  the  interest  she  felt  in  the  existence  of  John 
Short,  so  that  she  began  to  long  for  a  sight  of  him, 
without  exactly  knowing  why. 

Gradually,  too,  as  she  and  her  little  girl  passed 
many  peaceful  days  in  the  quiet  cottage,  the  sad 
woman's  face  grew  less  sorrowful.  She  spoke  of 
herself  more  cheerfully  and  dwelt  less  upon  the  sub 
ject  of  her  grief.  She  had  at  first  been  so  miserable 
that  she  could  hardly  talk  at  all  without  referring  to 
her  unhappy  situation  though,  after  her  first  inter 
view  with  Mrs.  Ambrose,  no  one  had  ever  heard  her 
mention  any  details  connected  with  her  trouble.  But 
now  she  never  approached  the  subject  at  all.  Her 
face  lost  none  of  its  pathetic  beauty,  it  is  true,  but 
it  seemed  to  express  sorrow  past  rather  than  present. 
Meanwhile  little  Nellie  grew  daily  more  lovely,  and 
absorbed  more  and  more  of  her  mother's  attention. 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  49 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EVENTS  of  such  stirring  interest  as  the  establish 
ment  of  Mrs.  Gocldard  in  Billingsfield  rarely  come 
alone;  for  it  seems  to  be  in  the  nature  of  great 
changes  to  bring  other  changes  with  them,  even 
when  there  is  no  apparent  connection  whatever 
between  them.  It  took  nearly  two  years  for  Bil 
lingsfield  to  recover  from  its  astonishment  at  Mrs. 
Goddard's  arrival,  and  before  the  excitement  had 
completely  worn  off  the  village  was  again  taken  off 
its  feet  by  unexpected  news  of  stupendous  import, 
even  as  of  old  Pompeii  was  overthrown  by  a  second 
earthquake  before  it  had  wholly  recovered  from  the 
devastation  caused  by  the  first.  The  shock  was 
indeed  a  severe  one.  The  Juxon  estate  was  reported 
to  be  out  of  Chancery,  and  a  new  squire  was  coming 
to  take  up  his  residence  at  the  Hall. 

It  is  not  known  exactly  how  the  thing  first  became 
known,  but  there  was  soon  no  doubt  whatever  that  it 
was  true.  Thomas  Reid,  the  sexton,  who  remem 
bered  that  the  old  squire  died  forty  years  ago  come 
Michaelmas,  and  had  been  buried  in  a  "wonderful 
heavy  "  coffin,  Thomas  Reid  the  stern  censor  of  the 
vicar's  sermons,  a  melancholic  and  sober  man,  so  far 
lost  his  head  over  the  news  as  to  ask  Mr.  Ambrose's 
leave  to  ring  the  bells,  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey  having 
promised  beer  for  the  ringers.  Even  to  the  vicar's 
enlightened  mind  it  seemed  fitting  that  there  should 


50  A   TALE  OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

be  some  festivity  over  so  great  an  event  and  the  bells 
were  accordingly  rung  during  one  whole  afternoon. 
Thomas  Reid's  ringers  never  got  beyond  the  first 
"bob"  of  a  peal,  for  with  the  exception  of  the  sexton 
himself  and  old  William  Speller  the  wheelwright, 
who  pulled  the  treble  bell,  they  were  chiefly  dull 
youths  who  with  infinite  difficulty  had  been  taught 
what  changes  they  knew  by  rote  and  had  very  little 
idea  of  ringing  by  scientific  rule.  Moreover  Mr. 
Boosey  was  liberal  in  the  matter  of  beer  that  day  and 
the  effect  of  each  successive  can  that  was  taken  up 
the  stairs  of  the  old  tower  was  immediately  apparent 
to  every  one  within  hearing,  that  is  to  say  as  far  as 
five  miles  around. 

The  estate  was  out  of  Chancery  at  last.  For  forty 
years,  ever  since  the  death  of  the  old  squire,  no  one 
had  rightfully  called  the  Hall  his  own.  The  heir 
had  lived  abroad,  and  had  lived  in  such  an  exceed 
ingly  eccentric  manner  as  to  give  ground  for  a  suit 
de  lunatico  inquirendo,  brought  by  another  heir. 
With  the  consistency  of  judicial  purpose  which 
characterises  such  proceedings  the  courts  appeared  to 
have  decided  that  though  the  natural  possessor,  the 
eccentric  individual  who  lived  abroad,  was  too  mad 
to  be  left  in  actual  possession,  he  was  not  mad  enough 
to  justify  actual  possession  in  the  person  of  the  next 
of  kin.  Proceedings  continued,  fees  were  paid,  a  cer 
tain  legal  personage  already  mentioned  came  down 
from  time  to  time  and  looked  over  the  estate,  but  the 
matter  was  not  finally  settled  until  the  eccentric 
individual  died,  after  forty  years  of  eccentricity,  to 
the  infinite  relief  and  satisfaction  of  all  parties  and 
especially  of  his  lawful  successor  Charles  James 
Juxon  now,  at  last,  "of  Billingsfield  Hall,  in  the 
county  of  Essex,  Esquire." 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  51 

In  due  time  also  Mr.  Juxon  appeared.  It  was 
natural  that  he  should  come  to  see  the  vicar,  and 
as  it  happened  that  he  called  late  in  the  afternoon 
upon  the  day  when  Mrs.  Goddard  and  little  Eleanor 
were  accustomed  to  dine  at  the  vicarage,  he  at  once 
had  an  opportunity  of  making  the  acquaintance  of 
his  tenant ;  thus,  if  we  except  the  free-thinking  doc 
tor,  it  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  Juxon  was  in  the  course 
of  five  minutes  introduced  to  the  whole  of  the  Bil- 
lingsfield  society. 

He  was  a  man  inclining  towards  middle  age,  of  an 
active  and  vigorous  body,  of  a  moderate  intelligence 
and  of  decidedly  prepossessing  appearance.  His 
features  were  of  the  strong,  square  type,  common  to 
men  whose  fathers  for  many  generations  have  lived 
in  the  country.  His  eyes  were  small,  blue  and  very 
bright,  and  to  judge  from  the  lines  in  his  sunburned 
face  he  was  a  man  who  laughed  often  and  heartily. 
He  had  an  abundance  of  short  brown  hair,  parted 
very  far  upon  one  side  and  brushed  to  a  phenomenal 
smoothness,  and  he  wore  a  full  brown  beard,  cut 
rather  short  and  carefully  trimmed.  He  immediately 
won  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Ambrose  on  account  of  his 
extremely  neat  appearance.  There  was  no  foreign 
blood  in  him,  she  was  sure.  He  had  large  clean 
hands  with  large  and  polished  nails.  He  wore  very 
well  made  clothes,  and  he  spoke  like  a  gentleman. 
The  vicar,  too,  was  at  once  prepossessed  in  his  fa 
vour,  and  even  little  Eleanor,  who  was  generally 
very  shy  before  strangers,  looked  at  him  admiringly 
and  showed  little  of  her  usual  bashfulness.  But 
Mrs.  Goddard  seemed  ill  at  ease  and  tried  to  keep 
out  of  the  conversation  as  much  as  possible. 

"  There  have  been  great  rejoicings  at  the  prospect 


52  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

of  your  arrival,"  said  the  vicar  when  the  new-comer 
had  been  introduced  to  both  the  ladies.  "I  fancy 
that  if  you  had  let  it  be  known  that  you  were  com 
ing  down  to-day  the  people  would  have  turned  out 
to  meet  you  at  the  station." 

"The  truth  is,  I  rather  avoid  that  sort  of  thing," 
said  the  squire,  smiling.  "I  would  rather  enter 
upon  my  dominions  as  quietly  as  possible." 

"It  is  much  better  for  the  people,  too,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  Their  idea  of  a  holiday  is  to  do  no 
work  and  have  too  much  beer." 

"I  daresay  that  would  not  hurt  them  much,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Juxon  cheerfully.  "  By  the  bye,  I  know 
nothing  about  them.  I  have  never  been  here  before. 
My  man  of  business  wanted  to  come  down  and  show 
me  over  the  estate,  and  introduce  me  to  the  farmers 
and  all  that,  but  I  thought  it  would  be  such  a  bore 
that  I  would  not  have  him." 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell,  really,"  said  Mr.  Am 
brose.  "The  society  of  Billingsfield  is  all  here," 
he  added  with  a  smile,  "including  one  of  your 
tenants." 

"  Are  you  my  tenant?  "  asked  Mr.  Juxon  pleasantly, 
and  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  have  taken  the  cottage." 

"  The  cottage  ?  Excuse  me,  but  you  know  I  am  a 
stranger  here  —  what  is  the  cottage  ?  " 

"Such  a  pretty  place,"  answered  Mrs.  Ambrose, 
"  just  opposite  the  park  gate.  You  must  have  seen 
it  as  you  came  down." 

"Oh,  is  that  it?"  said  the  squire.  "Yes,  I  saw 
it,  and  I  wished  I  lived  there  instead  of  in  the  Hall. 
It  looks  so  comfortable  and  small.  The  Hall  is  a 
perfect  wilderness." 


A   TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  53 

Mrs.  Goddard  felt  a  sudden  fear  lest  her  new  land 
lord  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  give  her  notice. 
She  only  took  the  cottage  by  the  year  and  her  pres 
ent  lease  ended  in  October.  The  arrival  of  a  squire 
in  possession  at  the  Hall  was  a  catastrophe  to  which 
she  had  not  looked  forward.  The  idea  troubled  her. 
She  had  accidentally  made  Mr.  Juxon's  acquaintance, 
and  she  knew  enough  of  the  world  to  understand  that 
in  such  a  place  he  would  regard  her  as  a  valuable 
addition  to  the  society  of  the  vicar  and  the  vicar's 
wife.  She  would  meet  him  constantly;  there  would 
be  visitors  at  the  Hall  —  she  would  have  to  meet 
them,  too.  Her  dream  of  solitude  was  at  an  end. 
For  a  moment  she  seemed  so  nervous  that  Mr.  Juxon 
observed  her  embarrassment  and  supposed  it  was  due 
to  his  remark  about  living  in  the  cottage  himself. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said  quickly, 
"  I  am  not  going  to  do  anything  so  uncivil  as  to  ask 
you  to  give  up  the  cottage.  Besides,  it  would  be 
too  small,  you  know." 

"Have  you  any  family,  Mr.  Juxon?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Ambrose  with  a  severity  which  startled  the 
squire.  Mrs.  Ambrose  thought  that  if  there  was  a 
Mrs.  Juxon,  she  had  been  unpardonably  deceived. 
Of  course  Mr.  Juxon  should  have  said  that  he  was 
married  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"I  have  a  very  large  family,"  answered  the  squire, 
and  after  enjoying  for  a  moment  the  surprise  he  saw 
in  Mrs.  Ambrose's  face,  he  added  with  a  laugh,  "I 
have  a  library  of  ten  thousand  volumes  —  a  very 
large  family  indeed.  Otherwise  I  have  no  encum 
brances,  thank  heaven." 

"You  are  a  scholar?"  asked  Mr.  Ambrose  eagerly. 

"A  book  fancier,  only  a  book  fancier,"  returned 


54  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

the  squire  modestly.  "But  I  am  very  fond  of  the 
fancy." 

"What  is  a  book  fancier,  mamma?"  asked  little 
Eleanor  in  a  whisper.  But  Mr.  Juxon  heard  the 
child's  question. 

"  If  your  mamma  will  bring  you  up  to  the  Hall 
one  of  these  days,  Miss  Goddard,  I  will  show  you. 
A  book  fancier  is  a  terrible  fellow  who  has  lots  of 
books,  and  is  pursued  by  a  large  evil  genius  telling 
him  he  must  buy  every  book  he  sees,  and  that  he  will 
never  by  any  possibility  read  half  of  them  before  he 
dies." 

Little  Eleanor  stared  for  a  moment  with  her  great 
violet  eyes,  and  then  turning  again  to  her  mother, 
whispered  in  her  ear. 

"Mamma,  he  called  me  Miss  Goddard! " 

"Run  out  and  play  in  the  garden,  darling,"  said 
her  mother  with  a  smile.  But  the  child  would  not 
go  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  and  stared  at  the  squire, 
who  was  immensely  delighted. 

"So  you  are  going  to  bring  all  your  library, 
Mr.  Juxon?"  asked  the  vicar  returning  to  the 
charge. 

"  Yes  —  and  I  beg  you  will  make  any  use  of  it  you 
please,"  answered  the  visitor.  "I  have  a  great  fond 
ness  for  books  and  I  think  I  have  some  valuable  vol 
umes.  But  I  am  no  great  scholar,  as  you  are,  though 
I  read  a  great  deal.  I  have  always  noticed  that  the 
men  who  accumulate  great  libraries  do  not  know 
much,  and  the  men  who  know  a  great  deal  have  very 
few  books.  Now  I  will  wager  that  you  have  not  a 
thousand  volumes  in  your  house,  Mr.  Ambrose." 

"Five  hundred  would  be  nearer  the  mark,"  said 
the  vicar. 


A   TALE    OF   A   LOXELY   PARISH.  55 

"  The  fewer  one  has  the  nearer  one  approaches  to 
Aquinas 's  homo  unius  libri,"  returned  the  squire. 
"  You  are  nine  thousand  five  hundred  degrees  nearer 
to  ideal  wisdom  than  I  am." 

Mr.  Ambrose  laughed. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  said,  "you  may  be  sure  that  if 
you  give  me  leave  to  use  your  books,  I  will  take 
advantage  of  the  permission.  It  is  in  writing  ser 
mons  that  one  feels  the  want  of  a  good  library." 

"  I  should  think  it  would  be  an  awful  bore  to  write 
sermons,"  remarked  the  squire  with  such  perfect 
innocence  that  both  the  vicar  and  Mrs.  Goddard 
laughed  loudly.  'But  Mrs.  Ambrose  eyed  Mr.  Juxon 
with  renewed  severity. 

"  I  should  fancy  it  would  be  a  much  greater  bore, 
as  you  call  it,  to  the  congregation  if  my  husband 
never  wrote  any  new  ones,"  she  said  stiffly.  Whereat 
the  squire  looked  rather  puzzled,  and  coloured  a  little. 
But  Mr.  Ambrose  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  my  wife  is  quite  right.  There  are 
no  people  with  such  terrible  memories  as  church 
wardens.  They  remember  a  sermon  twenty  years 
old.  But  as  you  say,  the  writing  of  sermons  is  not 
an  easy  task  when  a  man  has  been  at  it  for  thirty 
years  and  more.  A  man  begins  by  being  enthusias 
tic,  then  his  mind  gets  into  a  groove  and  for  some 
time,  if  he  happens  to  like  the  groove,  he  writes  very 
well.  But  by  and  by  he  has  written  all  there  is  to 
be  said  in  the  particular  line  he  has  chosen  and  he 
does  not  know  how  to  choose  another.  That  is  the 
time  when  a  man  needs  a  library  to  help  him." 

"  I  really  don't  think  you  have  reached  that  point, 
Mr.  Ambrose,"  remarked  Mrs.  Goddard.  She  ad 
mired  the  vicar  and  liked  his  sermons. 


56  A   TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"You  are  fortunately  not  in  the  position  of  my 
churchwardens,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose.  "You 
have  not  been  listening  to  me  for  thirty  years." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  my  tenant,  Mrs.  God- 
dard?"  asked  the  squire. 

"Nearly  two  years,"  she  answered  thoughtfully, 
and  her  sad  eyes  rested  a  moment  upon  Mr.  Juxon's 
face  with  an  expression  he  remembered.  Indeed  he 
looked  at  her  very  often  and  as  he  looked  his  admira 
tion  increased,  so  that  when  he  rose  to  take  his  leave 
the  predominant  impression  of  the  vicarage  which 
remained  in  his  mind  was  that  of  her  face.  Some 
thing  of  the  same  fascination  took  hold  of  him  which 
had  seized  upon  John  Short  when  he  caught  sight  of 
Mrs.  Goddard  through  the  open  door  of  the  study, 
something  of  that  unexpected  interest  which  in  Mrs. 
Ambrose  had  at  first  aroused  a  half  suspicious  dis 
like,  now  long  forgotten. 

Before  the  squire  left  he  invited  the  whole  party 
to  come  and  dine  with  him  at  the  Hall  on  the  fol 
lowing  Saturday.  He  must  have  some  kind  of  a 
house  warming,  he  said,  for  he  was  altogether  too 
lonely  up  there.  Mrs.  Goddard  would  bring  Eleanor, 
of  course ;  they  would  dine  early  —  it  would  not  be 
late  for  the  little  girl.  If  they  all  liked  they  could 
call  it  tea  instead  of  dinner.  Of  course  everything 
was  topsy-turvy  in  the  Hall,  but  they  would  excuse 
that.  He  hoped  to  establish  friendly  relations  with 
his  vicar  and  with  his  tenant  —  his  fair  tenant. 
Might  he  call  soon  and  see  whether  there  was  any 
thing  that  could  be  done  to  improve  the  cottage? 
Before  the  day  when  they  were  all  coming  to  dine? 
He  would  call  to-morrow,  then.  Anything  that 
needed  doing  should  be  done,  Mrs.  Goddard  might 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        57 

be  sure.  When  the  books  arrived  he  would  let  Mr. 
Ambrose  know,  of  course,  and  they  would  have  a  day 
together. 

So  he  went  away,  leaving  the  impression  that  he 
was  a  very  good-natured  and  agreeable  man.  Even 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  mollified.  He  had  shocked  her 
by  his  remark  about  sermon  writing,  but  he  had  of 
course  not  meant  it,  and  he  appeared  to  mean  to  be 
very  civil.  It  was  curious  to  see  how  all  severity 
vanished  from  Mrs.  Ambrose's  manner  so  soon  as 
the  stranger  who  aroused  it  was  out  of  sight  and 
hearing.  She  appeared  as  a  formidably  stern  type  of 
the  British  matron  to  the  chance  visitors  who  came 
to  the  vicarage ;  but  they  were  no  sooner  gone  than 
her  natural  temper  was  restored  and  she  was  kind 
ness  and  geniality  itself. 

But  Mrs.  Goddard  was  very  thoughtful.  She  was 
not  pleased  at  the  fact  of  an  addition  to  the  Billings- 
field  community,  and  yet  she  liked  the  appearance  of 
the  squire.  He  had  declared  his  intention  of  call 
ing  upon  her  on  the  following  day,  and  she  would 
be  bound  to  receive  him.  She  was  young,  she  had 
been  shut  off  from  the  world  for  two  years,  and  the 
prospect  of  Mr.  Juxon's  acquaintance  was  in  itself 
not  unpleasant ;  but  the  idea  that  he  was  to  be  per 
manently  established  in  the  Hall  frightened  her. 
She  had  felt  since  she  came  to  Billingsfield  that 
from  the  very  first  she  had  put  herself  upon  a  footing 
of  safety  by  telling  her  story  to  the  vicar.  But  the 
vicar  would  not  without  her  permission  repeat  that 
story  to  Mr.  Juxon.  Was  she  herself  called  upon  to 
do  so?  She  was  a  very  sensitive  woman,  and  her 
impressionable  nature  had  been  strongly  affected  by 
what  she  had  suffered.  An  almost  morbid  fear  of 


58  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

seeming  to  make  false  pretences  possessed  her.  She 
was  more  than  thirty  years  of  age,  it  is  true,  but  she 
saw  plainly  enough  in  her  glass  that  she  was  more 
than  passably  good-looking  still.  There  were  one 
or  two  grey  threads  in  her  brown  waving  hair  and 
she  took  no  trouble  to  remove  them;  no  one  ever 
noticed  them.  There  were  one  or  two  lines,  very 
faint  lines,  in  her  forehead;  no  one  ever  saw  them. 
She  could  hardly  see  them  herself.  Supposing  — 
why  should  she  not  suppose  it?  —  supposing  Mr. 
Juxon  were  to  take  a  fancy  to  her,  as  a  lone  bachelor 
of  forty  and  odd  might  easily  take  a  fancy  to  a  pretty 
woman  who  was  his  tenant  and  lived  at  his  gate, 
what  should  she  do?  He  was  an  honest  man,  and 
she  was  a  conscientious  woman ;  she  could  not  deceive 
him,  if  it  came  to  that.  She  would  have  to  tell  him 
the  whole  truth.  As  she  thought  of  it,  she  turned 
pale  and  trembled.  And  yet  she  had  liked  his  face, 
she  had  told  him  he  might  call  at  the  cottage,  and 
her  woman's  instinct  foresaw  that  she  was  to  see  him 
often.  It  was  not  vanity  which  made  her  think  that 
the  squire  might  grow  to  like  her  too  much.  She 
had  had  experiences  in  her  life  and  he  knew  that 
she  was  attractive;  the  very  fear  she  .1  id  felt  for  the 
last  two  years  lest  she  should  be  th  ,vn  into  the 
society  of  men  who  might  be  attracted  by  her,  in 
creased  her  apprehension  tenfold.  She  could  not 
look  forward  with  indifference  to  the  expected  visit, 
for  the  novelty  of  seeing  any  one  besides  the  vicar 
and  his  wife  was  too  great ;  she  could  not  refuse  to 
see  the  squire,  for  he  would  come  again  and  again 
until  she  received  him;  and  yet,  she  could  not  get 
rid  of  the  idea  that  there  was  danger  in  seeing  him. 
Call  it  as  one  may,  that  woman's  instinct  of  peril  is 
rarely  at  fault. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.         59 

In  the  late  twilight  of  the  June  evening  Mrs.  God- 
dard  and  Eleanor  walked  home  together  by  the  broad 
road  which  led  towards  the  park  gate. 

"Don't  you  think  Mr.  Juxon  is  very  kind, 
mamma?"  asked  the  child. 

"Yes,  darling,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is.  It  was 
very  good  of  him  to  ask  you  to  go  to  the  Hall." 

"And  he  called  me  Miss  Goddard,"  said  Eleanor. 
"I  wonder  whether  he  will  always  call  me  Miss 
Goddard." 

"He  did  not  know  your  name  was  Nellie,"  ex 
plained  her  mother. 

"Oh,  I  wish  nobody  knew,  mamma.  It  was  so 
nice.  When  shall  I  be  grown  up,  mamma?" 

"Soon,  my  child  —  too  soon,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard 
with  a  sigh.  Nellie  looked  at  her  mother  and  was 
silent  for  a  minute. 

"Mamma,  do  you  like  Mr.  Juxon?"  she  asked 
presently. 

"  No,  dear  —  how  can  one  like  anybody  one  has 
only  seen  once?" 

"Oh  —  but  I  thought  you  might,"  said  Nellie. 
"Don't  you  think  you  will,  mamma?  Say  you  will 
—  do!" 

"Why?"  asked  her  mother  in  some  surprise.  "I 
cannot  say  anything  about  it.  I  daresay  he  is  very 
nice." 

"  It  will  be  so  delightful  to  go  to  the  Hall  to  din 
ner  and  be  waited  on  by  big  real  servants  —  not  like 
Susan  at  the  vicarage,  or  Martha.  Won't  you  like 
it,  mamma?  Of  course  Mr.  Juxon  will  have  real 
servants,  just  like  —  like  poor  papa."  Nellie  finished 
her  speech  rather  doubtfully  as  though  not  sure  how 
her  mother  would  take  it.  Mrs.  Goddard  sighed 


60  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

again,  but  said  nothing.  She  could  not*  stop  the 
child's  talking  —  why  should  Nellie  not  speak  of  her 
father?  Nellie  did  not  kno\v. 

"I  think  it  will  be  perfectly  delightful,"  said 
Nellie,  seeing  she  got  no  answer  from  her  mother, 
and  as  though  putting  the  final  seal  of  affirmation  to 
her  remarks  about  the  Hall.  But  she  appeared  to  be 
satisfied  at  not  having  been  contradicted  and  did  not 
return  to  the  subject  that  evening. 

Mr.  Juxon  lost  no  time  in  keeping  his  word  and 
on  the  following  morning  at  about  eleven  o'clock, 
when  Mrs.  Goddard  was  just  hearing  the  last  of 
Nellie's  lesson  in  geography  and  little  Nellie  herself 
was  beginning  to  be  terribly  tired  of  acquiring 
knowledge  in  such  very  warm  weather,  the  squire's 
square  figure  was  seen  to  emerge  from  the  park  gate 
opposite,  clad  in  grey  knickerbockers  and  dark  green 
stockings,  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole  and  a  thick  stick 
in  his  hand,  presenting  all  the  traditional  appearance 
of  a  thriving  country  gentleman  of  the  period.  He 
crossed  the  road,  stopped  a  moment  and  whistled  his 
dog  to  heel  and  then  opened  the  wicket  gate  that  led 
to  the  cottage.  Nellie  sprang  to  the  window  in  wild 
excitement. 

"Oh  what  a  dog!  "  she  cried.  "Mamma,  do  come 
and  see!  And  Mr.  Juxon  is  coming,  too  —  he  has 
green  stockings ! " 

But  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  not  prepared  for  so 
early  a  visit,  hastily  put  away  what  might  be 
described  as  the  debris  of  Nellie's  lessons,  to  wit,  a 
much  thumbed  book  of  geography,  a  well  worn  spell 
ing  book,  a  very  particularly  inky  piece  of  blotting 
paper,  a  pen  of  which  most  of  the  stock  had  been 
subjected  to  the  continuous  action  of  Nellie's  teeth 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  61 

for  several  months,  and  an  ancient  doll,  without  the 
assistance  of  which,  as  a  species  of  Stokesite  memoria 
technics  Nellie  declared  that  she  could  not  say  her 
lessons  at  all.  Those  things  disappeared,  and,  with 
them,  Nellie's  troubles,  into  a  large  drawer  set  apart 
for  the  purpose.  By  the  time  Mr.  Juxon  had  rung 
the  bell  and  Martha's  answering  footstep  was  begin 
ning  to  echo  in  the  small  passage,  Mrs.  Goddard 
had  passed  to  the  consideration  of  Nellie  herself. 
Nellie's  fingers  were  mightily  inky,  but  in  other 
respects  she  was  presentable. 

"  Run  and  wash  your  hands,  child,  and  then  you 
may  come  back,"  said  her  mother. 

" Oh  mamma,  must  I  go?  He's  just  coming  in." 
She  gave  one  despairing  look  at  her  little  hands,  and 
then  ran  away.  The  idea  of  missing  one  moment  of 
Mr.  Juxon 's  visit  was  bitter,  but  to  be  caught  with 
inky  fingers  by  a  beautiful  gentleman  with  green 
stockings  and  a  rose  in  his  coat  would  be  more 
terribly  humiliating  still.  There  was  a  sound  as 
of  some  gigantic  beast  plunging  into  the  passage 
as  the  front  door  was  opened,  and  a  scream  of  terror 
from  Martha  followed  by  a  good-natured  laugh  from 
the  squire. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  sir,  but  he  don't  bite,  sir,  does 
he?  Oh  my!  what  a  dog  he  is,  sir  —  " 

"Is  Mrs.  Goddard  in?"  inquired  Mr.  Juxon,  hold 
ing  the  hound  lay  the  collar.  Martha  opened  the 
door  of  the  little  sitting-room  and  the  squire  looked 
in.  Martha  fled  down  the  passage. 

"Oh  my!  What  a  tremendious  dog  that  is,  to  be 
sure !  "  she  was  heard  to  exclaim  as  she  disappeared 
into  the  back  of  the  cottage. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Juxon,  rather  timidly 


blJ  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

and  with  an  expression  of  amused  perplexity  on  his 
brown  face.     "Lie  down,  Stamboul!" 

"Oh,  bring  him  in,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  com 
ing  forward  and  taking  Mr.  Juxon's  hand.  "I  am 
so  fond  of  dogs."  Indeed  she  was  rather  embarrassed 
and  was  glad  of  the  diversion. 

"He  is  really  very  quiet,"  said  the  squire  apolo 
getically,  "  only  he  is  a  little  impetuous  about  get 
ting  into  a  house."  Then,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Goddard 
looked  at  the  enormous  animal  with  some  interest 
and  much  wonder,  he  added,  "he  is  a  Russian  blood 
hound  —  perhaps  you  never  saw  one  ?  He  was  given 
to  me  in  Constantinople,  so  I  call  him  Stamboul  — 
good  name  for  a  big  dog  is  not  it?" 

"Very,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  rather  nervously. 
Stamboul  was  indeed  an  exceedingly  remarkable 
beast.  Taller  than  the  tallest  mastiff,  he  combined 
with  his  gigantic  strength  and  size  a  grace  and 
swiftness  of  motion  which  no  mastiff  can  possess. 
His  smooth  clean  coat,  of  a  perfectly  even  slate 
colour  throughout,  was  without  folds,  close  as  a  grey 
hound's,  showing  every  articulation  and  every  swell 
ing  muscle  of  his  body.  His  broad  square  head  and 
monstrous  jaw  betrayed  more  of  the  quickness  and 
sudden  ferocity  of  the  tiger  than  those  suggested  by 
the  heavy,  lion-like  jowl  of  the  English  mastiff. 
His  ears,  too,  were  close  cropped,  in  accordance  with 
the  Russian  fashion,  and  somehow  the  compactness 
this  gave  to  his  head  seemed  to  throw  forward  and 
bring  into  prominence  his  great  fiery  eyes,  that 
reflected  red  lights  as  he  moved,  and  did  not  tend  to 
inspire  confidence  in  the  timid  stranger. 

"Do  sit  down,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  when  the 
squire  was  seated  Stamboul  sat  himself  down  upon 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        63 

his  haunches  beside  him,  and  looked  slowly  from  his 
master  to  the  lady  and  back  again,  his  tongue  hang 
ing  out  as  though  anxious  to  hear  what  they  might 
have  to  say  to  each  other. 

"I  thought  I  should  be  sure  to  find  you  in  the 
morning,"  began  Mr.  Juxon,  after  a  pause.  "I  hope 
I  have  not  disturbed  you?" 

44  Oh,  not  at  all.  Nellie  has  just  finished  her 
lessons." 

"The  fact  is,"  continued  the  squire,  "that  I  was 
going  to  survey  the  nakedness  of  the  land  which  has 
fallen  to  my  lot,  and  as  I  came  out  of  the  park  I  saw 
the  cottage  right  before  me  and  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  calling.  I  had  no  idea  we  were  such 
near  neighbours." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "it  is  very  near." 

Mr.  Juxon  glanced  round  the  room.  He  was  not 
exactly  at  a  loss  for  words,  but  Mrs.  Goddard  did 
not  seem  inclined  to  encourage  the  conversation. 
He  saw  that  the  room  was  not  only  exceedingly  com 
fortable  but  that  its  arrangement  betrayed  a  consider 
able  taste  for  luxury.  The  furniture  was  of  a  kind 
not  generally  seen  in  cottages,  and  appeared  to  have 
formed  part  of  some  great  establishment.  The  car 
pet  itself  was  of  a  finer  and  softer  kind  than  any  at 
the  Hall.  The  writing-table  was  a  piece  of  richly 
inlaid  work,  and  the  implements  upon  it  were  of  the 
solid,  severe  and  valuable  kind  that  are  seen  in  rich 
men's  houses.  A  clock  which  was  undoubtedly  of 
the  Louis  Quinze  period  stood  upon  the  chimney- 
piece.  On  the  walls  were  hung  three  or  four  pict 
ures  which,  Mr.  Juxon  thought,  must  be  both  old 
and  of  great  value.  Upon  a  little  table  by  the  fire 
place  lay  four  or  five  objects  of  Chinese  jade  and 


64  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

Japanese  ivory  and  a  silver  chatelaine  of  old  work 
manship.  The  squire  saw,  and  wondered  why  such 
a  very  pretty  woman,  who  possessed  such  very  pretty 
things,  should  choose  to  come  and  live  in  his  cottage 
in  the  parish  of  Billingsfield.  And  having  seen  and 
wondered  he  became  interested  in  his  charming  ten 
ant  and  endeavoured  to  carry  on  the  conversation  in 
a  more  confidential  strain. 


A  TALE  OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  65 


CHAPTER  V. 

"You  have  done  more  towards  beautifying  the 
cottage  than  I  could  have  hoped  to  do,"  said  Mr. 
Juxon,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  resting  one 
hand  on  Stamboul's  great  head. 

"It  was  very  pretty  of  itself,"  answered  Mrs.  God- 
dard,  "and  fortunately  it  is  not  very  big,  or  my 
things  would  look  lost  in  it." 

"  I  should  not  say  that  —  you  have  so  many  beauti 
ful  things.  They  seem  to  suit  the  place  so  well.  I 
am  sure  you  will  never  think  of  taking  them  away." 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it  —  I  am  too  glad  to  be  quiet." 

"You  have  travelled  a  great  deal,  Mrs.  Goddard?" 
asked  the  squire. 

"No  —  not  exactly  that  —  only  a  little,  after  all. 
I  have  not  been  to  Constantinople  for  instance,"  she 
added  looking  at  the  hound  Mr.  Juxon  had  brought 
from  the  East.  "You  are  indeed  a  traveller." 

"I  have  travelled  all  my  life,"  said  the  squire, 
indifferently,  as  though  the  subject  of  his  wander 
ings  did  not  interest  him.  "From  what  little  I 
have  seen  of  Billingsfield  I  fancy  you  will  find  all 
the  quiet  you  could  wish,  here.  Really,  I  realise 
that  at  my  own  gate  I  must  come  to  you  for  informa 
tion.  What  sort  of  man  is  that  excellent  rector 
down  there,  whom  I  met  last  night?" 

The  squire's  tone  became  more  confidential  as  he 
put  the  question. 


66  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"Well  —  he  is  not  a  rector,  to  begin  with,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  smile,  "he  is  the  vicar, 
and  he  is  a  most  good  man,  whom  I  have  always 
found  most  kind." 

"I  can  readily  fancy  that,"  said  Mr.  Juxon. 
"But  his  wife  seems  to  be  of  the  severe  type." 

"  No  —  she  struck  me  so  at  first,  too.  I  think  it  is 
only  with  strangers.  She  is  such  a  motherly  sort  of 
woman,  you  do  not  know !  She  only  has  that  little 
manner  when  you  first  meet  her." 

"  What  a  strange  thing  that  is !  "  remarked  the 
squire,  looking  at  Mrs.  Goddard.  "The  natural 
belief  of  English  people  in  each  other's  depravity 
until  they  have  had  time  to  make  acquaintance! 
And  is  there  no  one  else  here  —  no  doctor  —  no  doc 
tor's  wife  ?  " 

"Not  a  soul,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard.  "There 
is  a  doctor,  but  the  vicarage  suspects  him  of  free 
thought.  He  certainly  never  goes  to  church.  He 
has  no  wife." 

"  This  is  the  most  Arcadian  retreat  I  ever  was  in. 
Upon  my  word,  I  am  a  very  lucky  man." 

"  I  suppose  that  it  must  be  a  relief  when  one  has 
travelled  so  much,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"Or  suffered  very  much,"  added  the  squire,  half 
unconsciously,  looking  at  her  sad  face. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  At  that  moment  the  door 
opened  and  Nellie  entered  the  room,  having  success 
fully  grappled  with  the  inkstains.  She  went  straight 
to  the  squire,  and  held  out  her  hand,  blushing  a  lit 
tle,  but  looking  very  pretty.  Then  she  saw  the  huge 
head  of  Stamboul  who  looked  up  at  her  with  a  fero 
ciously  agreeable  canine  smile,  and  thwacked  the 
carpet  with  his  tail  as  he  sat;  Nellie  started  back. 


A   TALE   OF    A   LONELY   PARISH.  67 

"  Oh,  what  a  dog!  "  she  exclaimed.  But  very  soon 
she  was  on  excellent  terms  with  him ;  little  Nellie 
was  not  timid,  and  Stamboul,  who  liked  people  who 
were  not  afraid  of  him  and  was  especially  fond  of 
children,  did  his  best  to  be  amusing. 

"He  is  a  very  good  dog,"  remarked  Mr.  Juxon. 
"He  once  did  me  a  very  good  service." 

"How  was  that?" 

"I  was  riding  in  the  Belgrade  forest  one  summer. 
I  was  alone  with  Stamboul  following.  A  couple  of 
ruffians  tried  to  rob  me.  Stamboul  caught  one  oi 
them." 

" Did  he  hurt  him  very  much? " 

"I  don't  know  —  he  killed  him  before  the  fellow 
could  scream,  and  I  shot  the  other,"  replied  the 
squire  calmly. 

"  What  a  horrible  story!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goddard, 
turning  pale.  "  Come  here,  Nellie  —  don't  touch 
that  dreadful  dog!" 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  — •  he  is  perfectly  harmless. 
Come  here  Stamboul !  "  The  huge  beast  obeyed,  wag 
ging  his  tail,  and  sat  down  at  his  master's  feet,  still 
looking  rather  wistfully  at  Nellie  who  had  been  play 
ing  with  him.  "You  see,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon, 
"he  is  as  quiet  as  a  lamb  —  would  not  hurt  a  fly!  " 

"  I  think  it  is  dreadful  to  have  such  animals  about," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard  in  a  low  voice,  still  looking  at 
the  dog  with  horror. 

"I  am  sorry  I  told  you.  It  may  prejudice  you 
against  him.  I  only  meant  to  explain  how  faithful 
he  is,  that  is  all.  You  see  a  man  grows  fond  of  a 
creature  that  has  saved  his  life." 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  it  is  rather  startling  to  see  such 
an  animal  so  near  to  one.  I  fear  I  am  very  nervous." 


68  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"By  the  bye,"  said  the  squire  with  the  bold  ir 
relevancy  of  a  man  who  wants  to  turn  the  subject, 
"  are  you  fond  of  flowers  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Goddard  in  surprise.  "  Yes  —  very. 
Why?" 

"  I  thought  you  would  not  mind  if  I  had  the  garden 
here  improved  a  little.  One  might  put  in  a  couple 
of  frames.  I  did  not  see  any  flowers  about.  I  am 
so  fond  of  them  myself,  you  see,  that  I  always  look 
for.  them." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"But  I  would  not  have  you  take  any  trouble  on  my 
account.  We  are  so  comfortable  and  so  fond  of  the 
cottage  already  —  " 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  grow  to  like  it  even  better," 
returned  the  squire  with  a  genial  smile.  "  Anything 
I  can  do,  you  know  — "  he  rose  as  though  to  take  his 
leave.  "  Excuse  me,  but  may  I  look  at  that  picture  ? 
Andrea  del  Sarto  ?  Yes,  I  thought  so  —  wonderful  — 
upon  my  word,  in  a  cottage  in  Billingsfield.  Where 
did  you  find  it?" 

"  It  was  my  husband's,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"Ah  —  ah,  yes,"  said  the  squire  in  a  subdued  tone. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  added,  as  people  often  do, 
unconsciously,  when  they  fancy  they  have  acciden 
tally  roused  in  another  a  painful  train  of  thought. 
Then  he  turned  to  go.  "  We  dine  at  half-past  seven, 
you  know,  so  as  to  be  early  for  Miss  Nellie,"  he  said, 
as  he  went  out. 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  glad  he  was  gone,  though  she 
felt  that  he  was  not  unsympathetic.  The  story  of 
the  dog  had  frightened  her,  and  her  own  mention  of 
her  husband  had  made  her  nervous  and  sad.  More 
than  ever  she  felt  that  fear  of  being  in  a  false  posi- 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        69 

tion,  which  had  assailed  her  when  she  had  first  met 
the  squire  on  the  previous  evening.  He  had  at  once 
opened  relations  with  her  in  a  way  which  showed 
that  he  intended  to  be  intimate;  he  had  offered  to 
improve  her  cottage,  had  insisted  upon  making 
frames  in  her  garden,  had  asked  her  to  dinner  with 
the  Ambroses  and  had  established  the  right  to  talk 
to  her  whenever  he  got  a  chance.  He  interested  her, 
too,  which  was  worse.  His  passing  references  to  his 
travels  and  to  his  adventures,  of  which  he  spoke  with 
the  indifference  of  a  man  accustomed  to  danger,  his 
unassuming  manner,  his  frank  ways  —  everything 
about  him  awakened  her  interest.  She  had  supposed 
that  in  two  years  the  very  faculty  of  being  interested 
by  a  man  would  be  dulled  if  not  destroyed;  she 
found  to  her  annoyance  that  though  she  had  seen 
Mr.  Juxon  only  twice  she  could  not  put  him  out  of 
her  thoughts.  She  was,  moreover,  a  nervous,  almost 
morbid,  woman,  and  the  natural  result  of  trying  to 
forget  his  existence  was  that  she  could  think  of 
nothing  else. 

How  much  better  it  would  be,  she  thought,  if  he 
knew  her  story  from  the  first.  He  might  then  be  as 
friendly  as  he  pleased ;  there  would  be  no  danger  in 
it,  to  him  or  to  her.  She  almost  determined  to  go 
at  once  and  ask  the  vicar's  advice.  But  by  the  time 
she  had  nearly  made  up  her  mind  it  was  the  hour  for 
luncheon,  and  little  Nellie's  appetite  was  exigent. 
By  the  time  lunch  was  over  her  determination  had 
changed.  She  had  reflected  that  the  vicar  would 
think  her  morbid,  that,  with  his  usual  good  sense,  he 
would  say  there  was  no  necessity  for  telling  the 
squire  anything;  indeed,  that  to  do  so  would  be 
undignified.  If  the  squire  were  indeed  going  to 


70  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

lead  the  life  of  a  recluse  as  he  proposed  doing,  he 
was  not  really  a  man  to  cause  her  any  apprehension. 
If  he  had  travelled  about  the  world  for  forty  years 
without  having  his  heart  disturbed  by  any  of  the 
women  he  must  have  met  in  that  time,  he  was  cer 
tainly  not  the  kind  of  man,  when  once  he  had  de 
termined  to  settle  in  his  home,  to  fall  in  love  with 
the  first  pretty  woman  he  met.  It  was  absurd ;  there 
was  no  likelihood  of  it;  it  was  her  own  miserable 
vanity,  she  told  herself,  which  made  the  thing  seem 
probable,  and  she  would  not  think  any  more  about 
it.  She,  a  woman  thirty-one  years  of  age,  with  a 
daughter  who  ere  long  would  be  growing  up  to 
womanhood!  To  be  afraid  of  a  mere  stranger  like 
Mr.  Juxon  —  afraid  lest  he  should  fall  in  love  with 
her!  Could  anything  be  more  ridiculous?  Her 
duty  was  to  live  quietly  as  she  had  lived  before,  to 
take  no  more  notice  of  the  squire  than  was  necessary 
in  order  to  be  civil,  and  so  all  would  be  well. 

And  so  it  seemed  for  a  long  time.  The  squire 
improved  the  garden  of  the  cottage  and  Mrs.  Goddard 
and  Nellie,  with  the  Ambroses,  dined  at  the  Hall, 
which  at  first  seemed  an  exceedingly  dreary  and  dis 
mal  place,  but  which,  as  they  returned  thither  again 
and  again,  grew  more  and  more  luxurious,  till  the 
transformation  was  complete.  Mr.  Juxon  brought 
all  manner  of  things  to  the  house;  vans  upon  vans 
arrived,  laden  with  boxes  of  books  and  pictures  and 
oriental  carpets  and  rare  objects  which  the  squire  had 
collected  in  his  many  years  of  travel,  and  which  he 
appeared  to  have  stored  in  London  until  he  had  at 
last  inherited  the  Hall.  The  longer  the  Ambroses 
and  Mrs.  Goddard  knew  him,  the  more  singularly 
impressed  they  were  with  his  reticence  concerning 


A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  71 

himself.  He  appeared  to  have  been  everywhere,  to 
have  seen  everything,  and  he  had  certainly  brought 
back  a  vast  collection  of  more  or  less  valuable  objects 
from  his  travels,  besides  the  large  library  he  had 
accumulated  and  which  contained  many  rare  and 
curious  editions  of  ancient  books.  He  was  evidently 
a  man  of  very  good  education,  and  a  much  better 
scholar  than  he  was  willing  to  allow.  The  vicar 
delighted  in  his  society  and  when  the  two  found 
themselves  together  in  the  great  room  which  Mr. 
Juxon  had  lined  with  well-filled  shelves,  they  re 
mained  for  hours  absorbed  in  literary  and  scholastic 
talk.  But  whenever  the  vicar  approached  the  sub 
ject  of  the  squire's  past  life,  the  latter  became  vague 
and  gave  ambiguous  answers  to  any  direct  questions 
addressed  to  him.  He  evidently  disliked  talking  of 
himself,  though  he  would  talk  about  anything  else 
that  occurred  to  him  with  a  fluency  which  Mrs. 
Ambrose  declared  was  the  only  un-English  thing 
about  him.  The  consequence  was  that  the  vicar 
became  more  and  more  interested  in  his  new  acquaint 
ance,  and  though  the  squire  was  so  frank  and  honest 
a  man  that  it  was  impossible  to  suspect  him  of  any 
doubtful  action  in  the  past,  Mr.  Ambrose  suspected 
that  he  had  a  secret.  Indeed  after  hearing  the  story 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  confided  to  his  ears,  nothing 
would  have  surprised  the  vicar.  After  finding  that 
so  good,  so  upright  and  so  honourable  a  woman  as 
the  fair  tenant  of  the  cottage  could  be  put  into  such 
a  singularly  painful  position  as  that  in  which  she 
now  found  herself,  it  was  not  hard  to  imagine  that 
this  singular  person  who  had  inherited  the  Hall 
might  also  have  some  weighty  reason  for  loving  the 
solitude  of  Billingsfield. 


72  A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH. 

To  chronicle  the  small  events  which  occurred  in 
that  Arcadian  parish,  would  be  to  overstep  the 
bounds  of  permissible  tediousness.  In  such  places 
all  events  move  slowly  and  take  long  to  develop  to 
their  results.  The  passions  which  in  our  own 
quickly  moving  world  spring  up,  flourish,  wither 
and  are  cut  down  in  a  month  require,  when  they  are 
not  stimulated  by  the  fertilising  heat  of  artificial  sur 
roundings,  a  longer  period  for  their  growth;  and 
when  that  growth  is  attained  they  are  likely  to  be 
stronger  and  more  deeply  rooted.  It  is  not  true  that 
the  study  of  them  is  less  interesting,  nor  that  they 
have  less  importance  in  themselves.  The  difficulty 
of  narrative  is  greater  when  they  are  to  be  described, 
for  it  is  necessary  to  carry  the  imagination  in  a  short 
time  over  a  long  period,  to  show  how  from  small 
incidents  great  results  follow,  and  to  show  also  how 
the  very  limited  and  trivial  nature  of  the  surround 
ings  may  cause  important  things  to  be  overlooked. 
Amidst  such  influences  acquaintance  is  soon  made 
between  the  few  persons  so  thrown  together,  but 
each  is  apt  to  regard  such  new  acquaintance  merely 
as  bearing  upon  his  or  her  own  particular  interests. 
It  is  surprising  to  see  how  people  will  live  side  by 
side  in  solitude,  even  in  danger,  in  distant  settle 
ments,  in  the  mining  districts  of  the  West,  in  up- 
country  stations  in  India,  on  board  ship,  even,  for 
months  and  years,  without  knowing  anything  of  each 
other's  previous  history;  whereas  in  the  crowded 
centres  of  civilisation  and  society  the  first  questions 
are  "Where  does  he  come  from?"  "What  are  his 
antecedents?"  "What  has  he  done  in  the  world?" 
And  unless  a  man  can  answer  such  inquiries  to 
the  general  satisfaction  he  is  likely  to  be  heavily 


A  TALE  OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  73 

handicapped  in  the  social  race.  But  in  more  primi 
tive  situations  men  are  ruled  by  more  primitive  feel 
ings  of  mutual  respect;  it  is  considered  that  a  man 
should  not  be  pressed  to  speak  of  things  he  shows  no 
desire  to  discuss  and  that,  provided  he  does  not  in 
terfere  with  his  neighbour's  wellbeing,  his  past  life 
is  nobody's  business.  One  may  feel  curiosity  con 
cerning  him,  but  under  no  circumstances  is  one  jus 
tified  in  asking  questions. 

For  these  reasons,  although  Mr.  Juxon's  arrival 
and  instalment  in  the  Hall  were  regarded  with  satis 
faction  by  the  little  circle  at  Billingsfield,  while  he 
himself  was  at  once  received  into  intimacy  and 
treated  with  cordial  friendliness,  he  nevertheless 
represented  in  the  minds  of  all  an  unsolved  enigma. 
And  to  the  squire  the  existence  of  one  of  the  circle 
was  at  least  as  problematical  as  his  own  life  could 
seem  to  any  of  them.  The  more  he  saw  of  Mrs. 
Goddard,  the  more  he  wondered  at  her  and  specu 
lated  about  her  and  the  less  he  dared  to  ask  her  any 
questions.  But  he  understood  from  Mr.  Ambrose's 
manner,  that  the  vicar  at  least  was  in  possession  of 
her  secret,  and  he  inferred  from  what  he  was  able  to 
judge  about  the  vicar's  character  that  the  latter  was 
not  a  man  to  extend  his  friendship  to  any  one  who 
did  not  deserve  it.  Whatever  Mrs.  Goddard's  story 
was,  he  felt  sure  that  her  troubles  had  not  been 
caused  by  her  own  misconduct.  She  was  in  every 
respect  what  he  called  a  good  woman.  Of  course, 
too,  she  was  a  wridow;  the  way  in  which  she  spoke 
of  her  husband  implied  that,  on  those  rare  occasions 
when  she  spoke  of  him  at  all.  Charles  James  Juxon 
was  a  gentleman,  whatever  course  of  life  he  had  fol 
lowed  before  settling  in  the  country,  and  he  did  not 


74  A  TALE   OF  A   LONELY  PARISH. 

feel  that  he  should  be  justified  in  asking  questions 
about  Mrs.  Goddard  of  the  vicar.  Besides,  as  time 
went  on  and  he  found  his  own  interest  in  her  increas 
ing,  he  began  to  nourish  the  hope  that  he  might  one 
day  hear  her  story  from  her  own  lips.  In  his  sim 
plicity  it  did  not  strike  him  that  he  himself  had 
grown  to  be  an  object  of  interest  to  her. 

Somehow,  during  the  summer  and  autumn  of  that 
year,  Mrs.  Goddard  contracted  a  habit  of  watching 
the  park  gate  from  the  window  of  the  cottage,  par 
ticularly  at  certain  hours  of  the  day.  It  was  only  a 
habit,  but  it  seemed  to  amuse  her.  She  used  to  sit 
in  the  small  bay  window  with  her  books,  reading  to 
herself  or  teaching  Nellie,  and  it  was  quite  natural 
that  from  time  to  time  she  should  look  out  across  the 
road.  But  it  rarely  happened,  when  she  was  installed 
in  that  particular  place,  that  Mr.  Juxon  failed  to 
appear  at  the  gate,  with  his  dog  Stamboul,  his  green 
stockings,  his  stick  and  the  inevitable  rose  in  his 
coat.  Moreover  he  generally  crossed  the  road  and, 
if  he  did  not  enter  the  cottage  and  spend  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  in  conversation,  he  at  least  spoke  to  Mrs. 
Goddard  through  the  open  window.  It  was  remark 
able,  too,  that  as  time  went  on  what  at  first  had 
seemed  the  result  of  chance,  recurred  with  such 
invariable  regularity  as  to  betray  the  existence  of  a 
fixed  rule.  Nellie,  too,  who  was  an  observant  child, 
had  ceased  asking  questions  but  watched  her  mother 
with  her  great  violet  eyes  in  a  way  that  made  Mrs. 
Goddard  nervous.  Nellie  liked  the  squire  very 
much  but  though  she  asked  her  mother  very  often  at 
first  whether  she,  too,  was  fond  of  that  nice  Mr. 
Juxon,  the  answers  she  received  were  not  encourag 
ing.  How  was  it  possible,  Mrs.  Goddard  asked,  to 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.  75 

speak  of  liking  anybody  one  had  known  so  short  a 
time?  And  as  Nellie  was  quite  unable  to  answer 
such  an  inquiry,  she  desisted  from  her  questions  and 
applied  herself  to  the  method  of  personal  observation. 
But  here,  too,  she  was  met  by  a  hopeless  difficulty. 
The  squire  and  her  mother  never  seemed  to  have 
any  secrets,  as  Nellie  would  have  expressed  it.  They 
met  daily,  and  daily  exchanged  very  much  the  same 
remarks  concerning  the  weather,  the  garden,  the 
vicar's  last  sermon.  When  they  talked  about  any 
thing  else,  they  spoke  of  books,  of  which  the  squire 
lent  Mrs.  Goddard  a  great  number.  But  this  was  a 
subject  which  did  not  interest  Nellie  very  much ;  she 
was  not  by  any  means  a  prodigy  in  the  way  of  learn 
ing,  and  though  she  was  now  nearly  eleven  years 
old  was  only  just  beginning  to  read  the  Waverley 
novels.  On  one  occasion  she  remarked  to  her 
mother  that  she  did  not  believe  a  word  of  them  and 
did  not  think  they  were  a  bit  like  real  life,  but  the 
momentary  fit  of  scepticism  soon  passed  and  Nellie 
read  on  contentedly,  not  omitting  however  to  watch 
her  mother  in  order  to  find  out,  as  her  small  mind 
expressed  it,  "  whether  mamma  really  liked  that  nice 
Mr.  Juxon."  Events  were  slowly  preparing  them 
selves  which  would  help  her  to  come  to  a  satisfactory 
conclusion  upon  that  matter. 

Mr.  Juxon  himself  was  in  a  very  uncertain  state 
of  mind.  After  knowing  Mrs.  Goddard  for  six 
months,  and  having  acquired  the  habit  of  seeing 
her  almost  every  day,  he  found  to  his  surprise  that 
she  formed  a  necessary  part  of  his  existence.  It 
need  not  have  surprised  him,  for  in  spite  of  that 
lady's  surmise  with  regard  to  his  early  life,  he  was 
in  reality  a  man  of  generous  and  susceptible  tempera- 


76  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

ment.  He  recognised  in  the  charming  tenant  of  the 
cottage  many  qualities  which  he  liked,  and  he  could 
not  deny  that  she  was  exceedingly  pretty.  Being  a 
strong  man  he  was  particularly  attracted  by  the 
pathetic  expression  of  her  face,  the  perpetual  sadness 
that  was  visible  there  when  she  was  not  momentarily 
interested  or  amused.  Had  he  suspected  her  pale 
ness  and  air  of  secret  suffering  to  be  the  result  of 
any  physical  infirmity,  she  would  not  have  inter 
ested  him  so  much.  But  Mrs.  Goddard's  lithe  figure 
and  easy  grace  of  activity  belied  all  idea  of  weak 
ness.  It  was  undoubtedly  some  hidden  suffering  of 
mind  which  lent  that  sadness  to  her  voice  and  feat 
ures,  and  which  so  deeply  roused  the  sympathies  of 
the  squire.  At  the  end  of  six  months  Mr.  Juxon 
was  very  much  interested  in  Mrs.  Goddard,  but 
despite  all  his  efforts  to  be  agreeable  he  seemed  to 
have  made  no  progress  whatever  in  the  direction  of 
banishing  her  cares.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  did  not 
enter  his  mind  that  he  was  in  love  with  her.  She 
was  his  tenant;  she  was  evidently  very  unhappy 
about  something;  it  was  therefore  undeniably  his 
duty  as  a  landlord  and  as  a  gentleman  to  make  life 
easy  for  her. 

He  wondered  what  the  matter  could  be.  At  first 
he  had  been  inclined  to  think  that  she  was  poor  and 
was  depressed  by  poverty.  But  though  she  lived 
very  simply,  she  never  seemed  to  be  in  difficulties. 
Five  hundred  pounds  a  year  go  a  long  way  in  the 
village  of  Billingsfield.  It  was  certainly  not  want 
of  money  which  made  her  unhappy.  The  interest  of 
the  sum  represented  by  the  pictures  hung  in  her  lit 
tle  sitting-room,  not  to  mention  the  other  objects  of 
value  she  possessed,  would  have  been  alone  sufficient 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  77 

to  afford  her  a  living.  The  squire  himself  would 
have  given  her  a  high  price  for  these  things,  but  in 
six  months  she  never  in  the  most  distant  manner 
suggested  that  she  wished  to  part  with  them.  The 
idea  then  naturally  suggested  itself  to  Mr.  Juxon's 
mind  that  she  was  still  mourning  for  her  husband, 
and  that  she  would  probably  continue  to  mourn  for 
him  until  some  one,  himself  for  instance,  succeeded 
in  consoling  her  for  so  great  a  loss. 

The  conclusion  startled  the  squire.  That  was  not 
precisely  the  part  he  contemplated  playing,  nor  the 
species  of  consolation  he  proposed  to  offer.  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  indeed  a  charming  woman,  and  the 
squire  liked  charming  women  and  delighted  in  their 
society.  But  Mr.  Juxon  was  a  bachelor  of  more 
than  forty  years  standing,  and  he  had  never  regarded 
marriage  as  a  thing  of  itself,  for  himself,  desirable. 
He  immediately  thrust  the  idea  from  his  mind  with 
a  mental  "  vade  retro  Satanas  ! '  and  determined  that 
things  were  very  agreeable  in  their  present  state,  and 
might  go  on  for  ever;  that  if  Mrs.  Goddard  was 
unhappy  that  did  not  prevent  her  from  talking  very 
pleasantly  whenever  he  saw  her,  which  was  nearly 
every  day,  and  that  her  griefs  were  emphatically 
none  of  his  business.  Before  very  long  however  Mr. 
Juxon  discovered  that  though  it  was  a  very  simple 
thing  to  make  such  a  determination  it  was  a  very 
different  thing  to  keep  it.  Mrs.  Goddard  interested 
him  too  much.  When  he  was  with  her  he  was  per 
petually  longing  to  talk  about  herself  instead  of  about 
the  weather  and  the  garden  and  the  books,  and  once 
or  twice  he  was  very  nearly  betrayed  into  talking 
about  himself,  a  circumstance  so  extraordinary  that 
Mr.  Juxon  imagined  he  must  be  either  ill  or  going 


78  A   TALE   OF  A   LONELY   PARISH. 

mad,  and  thought  seriously  of  sending  for  the  doc 
tor.  He  controlled  the  impulse,  however,  and  tem 
porarily  recovered ;  but  strange  to  say  from  that  time 
forward  the  conversation  languished  when  he  found 
himself  alone  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  it  seemed 
very  hard  to  maintain  their  joint  interest  in  the 
weather,  the  garden  and  the  books  at  the  proper 
standard  of  intensity.  They  had  grown  intimate, 
and  familiarity  had  begun  to  breed  a  contempt  of 
those  petty  subjects  upon  which  their  intimacy  had 
been  founded.  It  is  not  clear  why  this  should  be  so, 
but  it  is  true,  nevertheless,  and  many  a  couple  before 
Charles  Juxon  and  Mary  Goddard  had  found  it  out. 
As  the  interest  of  two  people  in  each  other  increases 
their  interest  in  things,  as  things,  diminishes  in  like 
ratio,  and  they  are  very  certain  ultimately  to  reach 
that  point  described  by  the  Frenchman's  maxim  — 
"  a  man  should  never  talk  to  a  woman  except  of  her 
self  or  himself." 

If  Mr.  Juxon  was  not  in  love  with  Mary  Goddard 
he  was  at  least  rapidly  approaching  a  very  dangerous 
state ;  for  he  saw  her  every  day  and  could  not  let  one 
day  go  by  without  seeing  her,  and  moreover  he  grew 
silent  in  her  company,  to  a  degree  which  embarrassed 
her  and  made  him  feel  himself  more  stupid  than  he 
had  ever  dreamed  possible ;  so  that  he  would  some 
times  stay  too  long,  in  the  hope  of  finding  something 
to  say,  and  sometimes  he  would  leave  her  abruptly 
and  go  and  shut  himself  up  with  his  books,  and  busy 
himself  with  his  catalogues  and  his  bindings  and  the 
arrangement  of  his  rare  editions.  One  day  at  last, 
he  felt  that  he  had  behaved  so  very  absurdly  that  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  suddenly  disappeared 
for  nearly  a  week.  When  he  returned  he  said  he 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  79 

had  been  to  town  to  attend  a  great  sale  of  books, 
which  was  perfectly  true ;  he  did  not  add  that  the 
learned  expert  he  employed  in  London  could  have 
done  the  business  for  him  just  as  well.  But  the  trip 
had  done  him  no  good,  for  he  grew  more  silent  than 
ever,  and  Mrs.  Goddard  even  thought  his  brown  face 
looked  a  shade  paler ;  but  that  might  have  been  the 
effect  of  the  winter  weather.  Ordinary  sunburn  she 
reflected,  as  she  looked  at  her  own  white  skin  in  the 
mirror,  will  generally  wear  off  in  six  months,  though 
freckles  will  not. 

If  Mr.  Juxon  was  not  in  love,  it  would  be  very 
hard  to  say  what  Mary  Goddard  felt.  It  was  not 
true  that  time  was  effacing  the  memory  of  the  great 
sorrow  she  had  suffered.  It  was  there  still,  that 
memory,  keen  and  sharp  as  ever;  it  would  never  go 
away  again  so  long  as  she  lived.  But  she  had  been 
soothed  by  the  quiet  life  in  Billingsfield;  the  evi 
dences  of  the  past  had  been  removed  far  from  her, 
she  had  found  in  the  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose 
one  of  those  rare  and  manly  natures  who  can  keep  a 
secret  for  ever  without  ever  referring  to  its  existence 
even  with  the  person  who  has  confided  it.  For  a  few 
days  she  had  hesitated  whether  to  ask  the  vicar's 
advice  about  Mr.  Juxon  or  not.  She  had  thought  it 
her  duty  to  allow  Mr.  Ambrose  to  tell  the  squire 
whatever  he  thought  fit  of  her  own  story.  But  she 
had  changed  her  mind,  and  the  squire  had  remained 
in  ignorance.  It  was  best  so,  she  thought;  for  now, 
after  more  than  six  months,  Mr.  Juxon  had  taken 
the  position  of  a  friend  towards  her,  and,  as  she 
thought,  showed  no  disposition  whatever  to  overstep 
the  boundaries  of  friendship.  The  regularity  of  his 
visits  and  the  sameness  of  the  conversation  seemed 


80  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

of  themselves  a  guarantee  of  his  simple  goodwill. 
It  did  not  strike  her  as  possible  that  if  he  were  going 
to  fall  in  love  with  her  at  all,  that  catastrophe  should 
be  postponed  beyond  six  months  from  their  first 
acquaintance.  Nor  did  it  seem  extraordinary  to  her 
that  she  should  actually  look  forward  to  those  visits, 
and  take  pleasure  in  that  monotonous  intercourse. 
Her  life  was  very  quiet;  it  was  natural  that  she 
should  take  whatever  diversion  came  in  her  way,  and 
should  even  be  thankful  for  it.  Mr.  Juxon  was  an 
honest  gentleman,  a  scholar  and  a  man  who  had  seen 
the  world.  If  what  he  said  was  not  always  very 
original  it  was  always  very  true,  a  merit  not  always 
conceded  to  the  highest  originality.  He  spoke  in 
telligently;  he  told  her  the  news;  he  lent  her  the 
newest  books  and  reviews,  and  offered  her  his  opin 
ions  upon  them,  with  the  regularity  of  a  daily  paper. 
In  such  a  place,  where  communications  with  the 
outer  world  seemed  as  difficult  as  at  the  antipodes, 
and  where  the  remainder  of  society  was  limited  to 
the  household  of  the  vicarage,  what  wonder  was  it  if 
she  found  Mr.  Juxon  an  agreeable  companion,  and 
believed  the  companionship  harmless  ? 

But  far  down  in  the  involutions  of  her  feminine 
consciousness  there  was  present  a  perpetual  curiosity 
in  regard  to  the  squire,  a  curiosity  she  never  expected 
to  satisfy,  but  was  wholly  unable  to  repress.  Under 
the  influence  of  this  feeling  she  made  remarks  from 
time  to  time  of  an  apparently  harmless  nature,  but 
which  in  the  squire  promoted  that  strange  inclina 
tion  to  talk  about  himself,  which  he  had  lately 
observed  and  which  caused  him  so  much  alarm.  He 
said  to  himself  that  he  had  nothing  to  be  concealed, 
and  that  if  any  one  had  asked  him  direct  questions 


A    TALE    OF    A   LONELY   PARISH.  81 

concerning  his  past  he  would  have  answered  them 
boldly  enough.  But  he  knew  himself  to  be  so 
singularly  averse  to  dwelling  on  his  own  affairs  that 
he  wondered  why  he  should  now  be  impelled  to  break 
through  so  good  a  rule.  Indeed  he  had  not  the  in 
sight  to  perceive  that  Mrs.  Goddard  lost  no  oppor 
tunity  of  leading  him  to  the  subject  of  his  various 
adventures,  and,  if  he  had  suspected  it,  he  would 
have  been  very  much  surprised. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  were  far  from  guessing  what 
an  intimacy  had  sprung  up  between  the  two.  Both 
the  cottage  and  the  Hall  lay  at  a  considerable  dis 
tance  from  the  vicarage,  and  though  Mrs.  Ambrose 
occasionally  went  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard  at  irregular 
hours  in  the  morning  and  afternoon,  it  was  remark 
able  that  the  squire  never  called  when  she  was  there. 
Once  Mrs.  Ambrose  arrived  during  one  of  his  visits, 
but  thought  it  natural  enough  that  Mr.  Juxon  should 
drop  in  to  see  his  tenant.  Indeed  when  she  called 
the  two  were  talking  about  the  garden  —  as  usual. 


82  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

JOHN  SHORT  had  almost  finished  his  hard  work  at 
college.  For  two  years  and  a  half  he  had  laboured  on 
acquiring  for  himself  reputation  and  a  certain  amount 
of  more  solid  advantage  in  the  shape  of  scholarships. 
Never  in  that  time  had  he  left  Cambridge  even  for  a 
day  unless  compelled  to  do  so  by  the  regulations  of 
his  college.  His  father  had  found  it  hard  to  induce 
him  to  come  up  to  town ;  and,  being  in  somewhat 
easier  circumstances  since  John  had  declared  that  he 
needed  no  further  help  to  complete  his  education,  he 
had  himself  gone  to  see  his  son  more  than  once.  But 
John  had  never  been  to  Billingsfield  and  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  there. 
At  last,  however,  Short  felt  that  he  must  have  some 
rest  before  he  went  up  for  honours ;  he  had  grown 
thin  and  even  pale  ;  his  head  ached  perpetually,  and 
his  eyes  no  longer  seemed  so  good  as  they  had  been. 
He  went  to  a  doctor,  and  the  doctor  told  him  that 
with  his  admirable  constitution  a  few  days  of  abso 
lute  rest  would  do  all  that  was  necessary.  John 
wrote  to  Mr.  Ambrose  to  say  that  he  would  at  last 
accept  the  invitation  so  often  extended  and  would 
spend  the  week  between  Christmas  and  New  Year's 
day  at  Billingsfield. 

There  were  great  rejoicings  at  the  vicarage.  John 
had  never  been  forgotten  for  a  day  since  he  had  left, 
each  successive  step  in  his  career  had  been  hailed  with 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  83 

hearty  delight,  and  now  that  at  last  he  was  coming 
back  to  rest  himself  for  a  week  before  the  final  effort 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  as  enthusiastic  as  her  husband. 
Even  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  not  quite  sure  whether 
she  had  ever  seen  John  or  not,  and  the  squire  who  had 
certainly  never  seen  him,  joined  in  the  general  excite 
ment.  Mrs.  Goddard  asked  the  entire  party  to  tea  at 
the  cottage  and  the  squire  asked  them  to  come  and 
skate  at  the  Hall  and  to  dine  afterwards;  for  the 
weather  was  cold  and  the  vicar  said  John  was  a  very 
good  skater.  Was  there  anything  John  could  not  do  ? 
There  was  nothing  he  could  not  do  much  better  than 
anybody  else,  answered  Mr.  Ambrose ;  and  the  good 
clergyman's  pride  in  his  pupil  was  perhaps  not  the 
less  because  he  had  at  first  received  him  on  chari 
table  considerations,  and  felt  that  if  he  had  risked 
much  in  being  so  generous  he  had  also  been  amply 
rewarded  by  the  brilliant  success  of  his  undertaking. 

When  John  arrived,  everybody  said  he  was  "so 
much  improved."  He  had  got  his  growth  now,  being 
close  upon  one  and  twenty  years  of  age ;  his  blue  eyes 
were  deeper  set ;  his  downy  whiskers  had  disappeared 
and  a  small  moustache  shaded  his  upper  lip ;  he  looked 
more  intellectual  but  not  less  strong,  though  Mrs. 
Ambrose  said  he  was  dreadfully  pale  —  perhaps  he 
owed  some  of  the  improvement  observed  in  his  appear 
ance  to  the  clothes  he  wore.  Poor  boy,  he  had  been 
but  scantily  supplied  in  the  old  days ;  he  looked  pros 
perous,  now,  by  comparison. 

"  We  have  had  great  additions  to  our  society,  since 
you  left  us,"  said  the  vicar.  "  We  have  got  a  squire 
at  the  Hall,  and  a  lady  with  a  little  girl  at  the 
cottage." 

"  Such  a  nice  little  girl,"  remarked  Mrs.  Ambrose. 


84  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

When  John  found  out  that  the  lady  at  the  cottage 
was  no  other  than  the  lady  in  black  to  whom  he  had 
lost  his  heart  two  years  and  a  half  before,  he  was  con 
siderably  surprised.  It  would  be  absurd  to  suppose 
that  the  boyish  fancy  which  had  made  so  much  romance 
in  his  life  for  so  many  months  could  outlast  the 
excitements  of  the  University.  It  would  be  absurd 
to  dignify  such  a  fancy  by  any  serious  name.  He  had 
grown  to  be  a  man  since  those  days  and  he  had  put 
away  childish  things.  He  blushed  to  remember  that 
he  had  spent  hours  in  writing  odes  to  the  beautiful 
unknown,  and  whole  nights  in  dreaming  of  her  face. 
And  yet  he  could  remember  that  as  much  as  a  year 
after  he  had  left  Billingsfield  he  still  thought  of  her  as 
his  highest  ideal  of  woman,  and  still  occasionally  com 
posed  a  few  verses  to  her  memory,  regretting,  perhaps, 
the  cooling  of  his  poetic  ardour.  Then  he  had  gradu 
ally  lost  sight  of  her  in  the  hard  work  which  made  up 
his  life.  Profound  study  had  made  him  more  prosaic 
and  he  believed  that  he  had  done  with  ideals  for  ever, 
after  the  manner  of  many  clever  young  fellows  who  at 
one  and  twenty  feel  that  they  are  separated  from  the 
follies  of  eighteen  by  a  great  and  impassable  gulf. 
The  gulf,  however,  was  not  in  John's  case  so  wide  nor 
so  deep  but  what,  at  the  prospect  of  being  suddenly 
brought  face  to  face,  and  made  -acquainted,  with  her 
who  for  so  long  had  seemed  the  object  of  a  romantic 
passion,  he  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  surprise  and  embar 
rassment.  Those  meetings  of  later  years  generally 
bring  painful  disillusion.  How  many  of  us  carTf 
remember  some  fair-haired  little  girl  who  in  our  child 
hood  represented  to  us  the  very  incarnation  of  femi-; 
nine  grace  and  beauty,  for  whom  we  fetched  and 
carried,  for  whom  we  bound  nosegays  on  the  heath 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  85 

and  stole  apples  from  the  orchard  and  climbed  upon 
the  table  after  desert,  if  we  were  left  alone  in  the 
dining-room,  to  lay  hands  on  some  beautiful  sweet 
meat  wrapped  in  tinsel  and  fringes  of  pink  paper  — 
have  we  not  met  her  again  in  after-life,  a  grown  woman, 
very,  very  far  from  our  ideal  of  feminine  grace  and 
beauty  ?  And  still  in  spite  of  changes  in  herself  and 
ourselves  there  has  clung  to  her  memory  through  all 
those  years  enough  of  romance  to  make  our  heart 
beat  a  little  faster  at  the  prospect  of  suddenly  meet 
ing  her,  enough  to  make  us  wonder  a  little  regretfully 
if  she  was  at  all  like  the  little  golden-haired  child  we 
loved  long  ago.  J 

But  with  John  the  feeling  was  stronger  than  that. 
It  was  but  two  years  and  a  half  since  he  had  seen 
Mrs.  Goddard,  and,  not  even  knowing  her  name,  had 
erected  for  her  a  pedestal  in  his  boyish  heart.  There 
was  moreover  about  her  a  mystery  still  unsolved. 
There  was  something  odd  and  strange  in  her  one  visit 
to  the  vicarage,  in  the  fact  that  the  vicar  had  never 
referred  to  that  visit  and,  lastly,  it  seemed  unlike  Mr. 
Ambrose  to  have  said  nothing  of  her  settlement  in 
Billingsfield  in  the  course  of  all  the  letters  he  had 
written  to  John  since  the  latter  had  left  him.  John 
dwelt  upon  the  name  —  Goddard  —  but  it  held  no 
association  for  him.  It  was  not  at  all  like  the  names 
he  had  given  her  in  his  imagination.  He  wondered 
what  she  would  be  like  and  he  felt  nervously  anxious 
to  meet  her.  Somehow,  too,  what  he  heard  of  the 
squire  did  not  please  him  ;  he  felt  an  immediate  an 
tagonism  to  Mr.  Juxon,  to  his  books,  to  his  amateur 
scholarship,  even  to  his  appearance  as  described  by  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  who  said  he  was  such  a  thorough  English 
man  and  wondered  how  he  kept  his  hair  so  smooth. 


86  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  had  an  opportunity  of 
judging  for  himself  of  what  Mr.  Ambrose  called  the 
recent  addition  to  Billingsfield  society.  On  the  very 
afternoon  of  his  arrival  the  vicar  proposed  to  walk 
up  to  the  Hall  and  have  a  look  at  the  library,  and 
John  readily  assented.  It  was  Christmas  Eve  and  the 
weather,  even  in  Essex,  was  sharp  and  frosty.  The 
muddy  road  was  frozen  hard  and  the  afternoon  sun, 
slanting  through  the  oak  trees  that  bordered  the  road 
beyond  the  village,  made  no  perceptible  impression  on 
the  cold.  The  two  men  walked  briskly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  park  gate.  Before  they  had  quite  reached 
it  however,  the  door  of  the  cottage  opposite  was 
opened,  and  Stamboul,  the  Russian  bloodhound, 
bounded  down  the  path,  cleared  the  wicket  gate  in 
his  vast  stride,  and  then  turning  suddenly  crouched 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  to  wait  for  his  master.  But 
the  dog  instantly  caught  sight  of  the  vicar,  with 
whom  he  was  on  very  good  terms,  and  trotted  slowly 
up  to  him,  thrusting  his  great  nose  into  his  hand,  and 
then  proceeding  to  make  acquaintance  with  John. 
He  seemed  to  approve  of  the  stranger,  for  he  gave 
a  short  sniff  of  satisfaction  and  trotted  back  to  the 
wicket  of  the  cottage.  At  this  moment  Mrs.  God- 
dard  and  Nellie  came  out,  followed  by  the  squire 
arrayed  in  his  inevitable  green  stockings.  There  was 
however  no  rose  in  his  coat.  Whether  the  green 
houses  at  the  Hall  had  failed  to  produce  any  in 
the  bitter  weather,  or  whether  Mr.  Juxon  had  trans 
ferred  the  rose  from  his  coat  to  the  possession  of  Mrs. 
Goddard,  is  uncertain.  The  three  came  out  into  the 
road  where  the  vicar  and  John  stood  still  to  meet 
them. 

"  Mrs.  Goddard,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  this  is  Mr. 


A   TALE   OF  A  LONELY   PARISH.  87 

Short,  of  whom  you  have  heard  —  John,  let  me  intro 
duce  you  to  Mr.  Juxon." 

John  felt  that  he  blushed  violently  as  he  took  Mrs. 
Goddard's  hand.  He  would  not  have  believed  that 
he  could  feel  so  much  embarrassed,  and  he  hated 
himself  for  betraying  it.  But  nobody  noticed  his 
colour.  The  weather  was  bright  and  cold,  and  even 
Mrs.  Goddard's  pale  and  delicate  skin  had  a  rosy 
tinge. 

"  We  were  just  going  for  a  walk,"  she  explained. 

"  And  we  were  going  to  see  you  at  the  Hall,"  said 
the  vicar  to  Mr.  Juxon. 

"  Let  us  do  both,"  said  the  latter.  "  Let  us  walk  to 
the  Hall  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  We  can  look  at  the 
ice  and  see  whether  it  will  bear  to-morrow." 

Everybody  agreed  to  the  proposal,  and  it  so  fell  out 
that  the  squire  and  the  vicar  went  before  while  John 
and  Mrs.  Goddard  followed  and  Nellie  walked  be 
tween  them,  holding  Stamboul  by  the  collar,  and 
talking  to  him  as  she  went.  John  looked  at  his 
companion,  and  saw  with  a  strange  satisfaction  that 
his  first  impression,  the  impression  he  had  cher 
ished  so  long,  had  not  been  a  mistaken  one.  Her 
deep  violet  eyes  were  still  sad,  beautiful  and  dreamy. 
Her  small  nose  was  full  of  expression,  and  was  not 
reddened  by  the  cold  as  noses  are  wont  to  be.  Her 
rich  brown  hair  waved  across  her  forehead  as  it  did 
on  that  day  when  John  first  saw  her;  and  now 
as  he  spoke  with  her,  her  mouth  smiled,  as  he  had 
been  sure  it  would.  John  felt  a  curious  sense  of 
pride  in  her,  in  finding  that  he  had  not  been  de 
ceived,  that  this  ideal  of  whom  he  had  dreamed  was 
really  and  truly  very  good  to  look  at.  He  knew 
little  of  the  artist's  rules  of  beauty;  he  had  often 


88        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

looked  with  wonder  at  the  faces  in  the  illustrations 
to  Dr.  Smith's  classical  dictionary,  and  had  tried  to 
understand  where  the  beauty  of  them  lay,  and  at 
Cambridge  he  had  seen  and  studied  with  interest 
many  photographs  and  casts  from  the  antiques. 
But  to  his  mind  the  antique  would  not  bear  compari 
son  for  a  moment  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  resembled 
no  engraving  nor  photograph  nor  cast  he  had  ever 
seen. 

And  she,  too,  looked  at  him,  and  said  to  herself 
that  he  did  not  look  like  what  she  had  expected.  He 
looked  like  a  lean,  fresh  young  Englishman  of  moder 
ate  intelligence  and  in  moderate  circumstances.  And 
yet  she  knew  that  he  was  no  ordinary  young  fellow, 
that  he  was  wonderfully  gifted,  in  fact,  and  likely  to 
make  a  mark  in  the  world.  She  resolved  to  take  a 
proper  interest  in  him. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  I  have  heard  so  much 
about  you,  that  I  feel  as  though  I  had  met  you  before, 
Mr.  Short." 

"  We  really  have  met,"  said  John.  "  Do  you  re 
member  that  hot  day  when  you  came  to  the  vicarage 
and  I  waked  up  Muggins  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  was  that  you  ?  You  have  changed.  That 
is,  I  suppose  I  did  iiot  see  you  very  well  in  the 
hurry." 

"I  suppose  I  have  changed  in  two  years  and  a  half. 
I  was  only  a  boy  then,  you  know.  But  how  have 
you  heard  so  much  about  me  ?  " 

"  Billingsfield,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  is  not  a  large  place.  The  Ambroses  are 
very  fond  of  you  and  always  talk  of  what  you  are 
doing." 

"And   so   you   really   live   here,   Mrs.   Goddard? 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  89 

How  long  is  it  since  you  came  ?  Mr.  Ambrose  never 
told  me  —  " 

"I  have  been  here  more  than  two  years  —  two 
years  last  October,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"  The  very  year  I  left  —  only  a  month  after  I  was 
gone.  How  strange  !  " 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  up  nervously.  She  was 
frightened  lest  John  should  have  made  any  deduc 
tions  from  the  date  of  her  arrival.  But  John  was 
thinking  in  a  very  different  train  of  thought. 

"  Why  is  it  strange  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  hardly  know,"  said  John  in  considerable 
embarrassment.  "  I  was  only  thinking  —  about  you 
—  that  is,  about  it  all." 

The  answer  did  not  tend  to  quiet  Mrs.  Goddard's 
apprehensions. 

"  About  me  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  should  you 
think  about  me  ?  " 

"It  was  very  foolish,  of  course,"  said  John. 
"  Only,  when  I  caught  sight  of  you  that  day  I  was 
very  much  struck.  You  know,  I  was  only  a  boy, 
then.  I  hoped  you  would  come  back  —  but  you 
did  not."  He  blushed  violently,  and  then  glanced 
at  his  companion  to  see  whether  she  had  noticed 
it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not  come  back  for  some 
time." 

"  And  then  I  was  gone.  Mr.  Ambrose  never  told 
me  you  had  come." 

"Why  should  he?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  think  he  might.  You  see 
Billingsfield  has  been  a  sort  of  home  to  me,  and  it  is 
a  small  place ;  so  I  thought  he  might  have  told  me 
the  news." 


90  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  I  suppose  he  thought  it  would  not  interest  you," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  why 
it  should.  But  you  must  be  very  fond  of  the  place, 
are  you  not?" 

"  Very.  As  I  was  saying,  it  is  very  like  home  to 
me.  My  father  lives  in  town  you  know  —  that  is  not 
at  all  like  home.  One  always  associates  the  idea  of 
home  with  the  country,  and  a  vicarage  and  a  Hall,  and 
all  that." 

"  Does  one  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  picking  her  way 
over  the  frozen  mud  of  the  road.  "  Take  care,  Nellie, 
it  is  dreadfully  slippery !  " 

"  How  much  she  has  grown,"  remarked  John,  look 
ing  at  the  girl's  active  figure  as  she  walked  before 
them.  "  She  was  quite  a  little  girl  when  I  saw  her 
first." 

"  Yes,  she  grows  very  fast,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard 
rather  regretfully. 

"  You  say  that  as  though  you  were  sorry." 

"I?  No.  I  am  glad  to  see  her  grow.  What  a 
funny  remark." 

"  I  thought  you  spoke  sadly,"  explained  John. 

"  Oh,  dear  no.  Only  she  is  coming  to  the  awkward 
age." 

"  She  is  coming  to  it  very  gracefully,"  said  John, 
who  wanted  to  say  something  pleasant. 

"  That  is  the  most  any  of  us  can  hope  to  do," 
answered  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  little  smile.  "We 
all  have  our  awkward  age,  I  suppose." 

"  I  should  not  think  you  could  remember  yours." 

"  Why?  Do  you  think  it  was  so  very  long  ago ? " 
Mrs.  Goddard  laughed. 

"No  —  I  cannot  believe  you  ever  had  any,"  said 
John. 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  91 

The  boyish  compliment  pleased  Mrs.  Goddard.  It 
was  long  since  any  one  had  flattered  her,  for  flattery 
did  not  enter  into  the  squire's  system  for  making  him 
self  agreeable. 

"  Do  they  teach  that  sort  of  thing  at  Cambridge  ?  " 
she  asked  demurely. 

"What  sort  of  thing?" 

"  Making  little  speeches  to  ladies,"  said  she. 

"No  —  I  wish  they  did,"  said  John,  laughing.  " I 
should  know  much  better  how  to  make  them.  We 
learn  how  to  write  Greek  odes  to  moral  abstrac 
tions." 

"  What  a  dreadful  thing  to  do  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Goddard. 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  do  not  know.  Now,  for 
instance,  I  have  written  a  great  many  Greek  odes  to 
you  —  " 

"To  me?"  interrupted  his  companion  in  surprise. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  so  very  extraordinary  ?  " 

"Very." 

"Well  —  you  see  —  I  only  saw  you  once  —  you 
won't  laugh?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  very  much 
amused,  and  was  beginning  to  think  that  John  Short 
was  the  most  original  young  man  she  had  ever  met. 

"  I  only  saw  you  once,  when  you  came  to  the  vicar 
age,  and  I  had  not  the  least  idea  what  your  name 
was.  But  I  —  I  hoped  you  would  come  back ;  and  so 
I  used  to  write  poems  to  you.  They  were  very  good, 
too,"  added  John  in  a  meditative  tone,  "  I  have  never 
written  any  nearly  so  good  as  they  were." 

"Really?"  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him  rather 
incredulously  and  then  laughed. 

"  You  said  you  would  not  laugh,"  objected  John. 


92  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"I  cannot  help  it  in  the  least,"  said  she.  "It 
seems  so  funny." 

"  It  did  not  seem  funny  to  me,  I  can  assure  you," 
replied  John  rather  warmly.  "I  thought  it  very 
serious." 

"  You  don't  do  it  now,  do  you  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  God- 
dard,  looking  up  at  him  quietly. 

"  Oh  no  —  a  man's  ideals  change  so  much,  you 
know,"  answered  John,  who  felt  he  had  been  fool 
ishly  betrayed  into  telling  his  story,  and  hated  to  be 
laughed  at. 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  that.  How  long  are  you  going 
to  stay  here,  Mr.  Short?" 

"  Until  New  Year's  Day,  I  think,"  he  answered. 
"Perhaps  you  will  have  time  to  forget  about  the 
poetry  before  I  go." 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  noticing 
his  hurt  tone.  "  I  think  it  was  very  pretty  —  I  mean 
the  way  you  did  it.  You  must  be  a  born  poet  —  to 
write  verses  to  a  person  you  did  not  know  and  had 
only  seen  once  !  " 

"It  is  much  easier  than  writing  verses  to  moral 
abstractions  one  has  never  seen  at  all,"  explained 
John,  who  was  easily  pacified.  "  When  a  man  writes 
a  great  deal  he  feels  the  necessity  of  attaching  all 
those  beautiful  moral  qualities  to  some  real,  living 
person  whom  he  can  see  —  " 

"  Even  if  he  only  sees  her  once,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Goddard  demurely. 

"  Yes,  even  if  he  only  sees  her  once.  You  have  no 
idea  how  hard  it  is  to  concentrate  one's  faculties  upon 
a  mere  idea ;  but  the  moment  a  man  sees  a  woman 
whom  he  can  endow  with  all  sorts  of  beautiful  quali 
ties  —  why  it's  just  as  easy  as  hunting." 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        93 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  been  of  so  much  service  to  you, 
even  unconsciously  —  but,  don't  you  think  perhaps 
Mrs.  Ambrose  would  have  done  as  well  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Ambrose  ?  "  repeated  John.  Then  he  broke 
into  a  hearty  laugh.  "  No  —  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  she  would  not  have  done  as  well.  I  am 
deeply  indebted  to  Mrs.  Ambrose  for  a  thousand  kind 
nesses,  for  a  great  deal  more  than  I  can  tell  —  but,  on 
the  whole,  I  say,  no ;  I  could  not  have  written  odes 
to  Mrs.  Ambrose." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Besides,  fancy  the  vicar's 
state  of  mind !  She  would  have  had  to  call  him  in 
to  translate  your  poetry." 

"  It  is  very  singular,"  said  John  in  a  tone  of  reflec 
tion.  "But,  if  I  had  not  done  all  that,  we  should 
not  be  talking  as  we  are  now,  after  ten  minutes 
acquaintance." 

"  Probably  not,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

uNo  —  certainly  not.  By  the  bye,  there  is  the 
Hall.  I  suppose  you  have  often  been  there  since 
Mr.  Juxon  came  —  what  kind  of  man  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  a  great  traveller,"  answered  his  com 
panion.  uAnd  then  —  well,  he  is  a  scholar  and  has 
an  immense  library  — '' 

"And  an  immense  dog  —  yes,  but  I  mean,  what 
kind  of  man  is  he  himself  ?  " 

"  He  is  very  agreeable,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  quietly. 
"  Very  well  bred,  very  well  educated.  We  find  him 
a  great  addition  in  Billingsfield." 

"  I  should  think  so,  if  he  is  all  you  say,"  said  John 
discontentedly.  His  antagonism  against  Mr.  Juxon 
was  rapidly  increasing.  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him 
in  some  surprise,  being  very  far  from  understanding 
his  tone. 


94  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"  I  think  you  will  like  him,"  she  said.  "  He  knows 
all  about  you  from  the  Ambroses,  and  he  always 
speaks  of  you  with  the  greatest  admiration." 

"Really?  It  is  awfully  kind  of  him,  I  am  sure. 
I  am  very  much  obliged,"  said  John  rather  con 
temptuously. 

"  Why  do  you  speak  like  that  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  God- 
dard  gravely.  "  You  cannot  possibly  have  any  cause 
for  disliking  him.  Besides,  he  is  a  friend  of  ours  —  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  then  it  is  different,"  said  John. 
"  If  he  is  a  friend  of  yours  —  " 

"  Do  you  generally  take  violent  dislikes  to  people 
at  first  sight,  Mr.  Short?" 

"  Oh,  dear  no.  Not  at  all  —  at  least,  not  dislikes. 
I  suppose  Mr.  Juxon's  face  reminds  me  of  somebody 
I  do  not  like.  I  will  behave  like  an  angel.  Here 
we  are." 

The  effect  of  this  conversation  upon  the  two  per 
sons  between  whom  it  took  place  was  exceedingly 
different.  Mrs.  Goddard  was  amused,  without  being 
altogether  pleased.  She  had  made  the  acquaintance 
of  a  refreshingly  young  scholar  whom  she  understood 
to  be  full  of  genius.  He  was  enthusiastic,  simple, 
seemingly  incapable  of  concealing  anything  that 
passed  through  his  mind,  unreasonable  and  evidently 
very  susceptible.  On  the  whole,  she  thought  she 
should  like  him,  though  his  scornful  manner  in  speak 
ing  of  the  squire  had  annoyed  her.  The  interest  she 
could  feel  in  him,  if  she  felt  any  at  all,  would  be 
akin  to  that  of  the  vicar  in  the  boy.  He  was  only  a 
boy ;  brilliantly  talented,  they  said,  but  still  a  mere 
boy.  She  was  fully  ten  years  older  than  he  —  she 
might  almost  be  his  mother  —  well,  not  quite  that, 
but  very  nearly.  It  was  amusing  to  think  of  his 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PAKISH.  95 

writing  odes  to  her.  She  wished  she  could  see  trans 
lations  of  them,  and  she  almost  made  up  her  mind  to 
ask  him  to  show  them  to  her. 

John  on  the  other  hand  experienced  a  curious 
sensation.  He  had  never  before  been  in  the  society 
of  so  charming  a  woman.  He  looked  at  her  and 
looked  again,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
was  not  only  charming  but  beautiful.  He  had  not 
the  least  idea  of  her  age ;  it  is  not  the  manner  of  his 
kind  to  think  much  about  the  age  of  a  woman,  pro 
vided  she  is  not  too  young.  The  girl  might  be  ten. 
Mrs.  Goddard  might  have  married  at  sixteen  — 
twenty-six,  twenty-seven  —  what  was  that  ?  John 
called  himself  twenty-two.  Five  years  was  simply 
no  difference  at  all !  Besides,  who  cared  for  age  ? 

He  had  suddenly  found  himself  almost  on  a  footing 
of  intimacy  with  this  lovely  creature.  His  odes  had 
served  him  well ;  it  had  pleased  her  to  hear  the  story. 
She  had  laughed  a  little,  of  course ;  but  women,  as 
John  knew,  always  laugh  when  they  are  pleased. 
He  would  like  to  show  her  his  odes.  As  he  walked 
through  the  park  by  her  side  he  felt  a  curious  sense 
of  possession  in  her  which  gave  him  a  thrill  of  exqui 
site  delight ;  and  when  they  entered  the  Hall  he  felt 
as  though  he  were  resigning  her  to  the  squire,  which 
gave  him  a  corresponding  sense  of  annoyance.  When 
an  Englishman  experiences  these  sensations,  he  is  in 
love.  John  resolved  that  whatever  happened  he 
would  walk  back  with  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  squire  cheerily.  "  We  are 
not  so  cold  as  we  used  to  be  up  here." 

A  great  fire  of  logs  was  burning  upon  the  hearth 
in  the  Hall.  Stamboul  stalked  up  to  the  open  chim 
ney,  scratched  the  tiger's  skin  which  served  for  a  rug, 


96  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

and  threw  himself  down  as  though  his  day's  work 
were  done.  Mr.  Juxon  went  up  to  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  take  off  your  coat,"  he 
said.  "  The  house  is  very  warm." 

Mrs.  Goddard  allowed  the  squire  to  help  her  in  re 
moving  the  heavy  black  jacket  lined  and  trimmed 
with  fur,  which  she  wore.  John  eyed  the  proceeding 
uneasily  and  kept  on  his  greatcoat. 

"Thank  you  —  I  don't  mind  the  heat,"  he  said 
shortly  when  the  squire  suggested  to  him  that  he 
might  be  too  warm.  John  was  in  a  fit  of  contrariety. 
Mrs.  Goddard  glanced  at  him,  as  he  spoke,  and  he 
thought  he  detected  a  twinkle  of  amusement  in  her 
eyes,  which  did  not  tend  to  smooth  his  temper. 

"You  will  have  some  tea,  Mrs.  Goddard?"  said 
Mr.  Juxon,  leading  the  way  into  the  library,  which 
he  regarded  as  the  most  habitable  room  in  the 
house.  Mrs.  Goddard  walked  by  his  side  and  the 
vicar  followed,  while  John  and  Nellie  brought  up 
the  rear. 

"  Is  not  it  a  beautiful  place  ?  "  said  Nellie,  who  was 
anxious  that  the  new-comer  should  appreciate  the 
magnificence  of  the  Hall. 

"  Can't  see  very  well,"  said  John,  "  it  is  so  dark." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  beautiful,"  insisted  Miss  Nellie. 
"  And  they  have  lots  of  lamps  here  in  the  evening. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Juxon  will  have  them  lighted  before  we 
go.  He  is  always  so  kind." 

"Is  he? "  asked  John  with  a  show  of  interest. 

"  Yes  —  he  brings  mamma  a  rose  every  day,"  said 
Nellie. 

"  Not  really?"  said  John,  beginning  to  feel  that  he 
was  justified  in  hating  the  squire  with  all  his  might. 

"  Yes  —  and  books,  too.    Lots  of  them  —  but  then, 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  97 

he  has  so  many.  See,  this  is  the  library.  Is  not  it 
splendid !  " 

John  looked  about  him  and  was  surprised.  The 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  fell  across  the  open  lawn 
and  through  the  deep  windows  of  the  great  room, 
illuminating  the  tall  carved  bookcases,  the  heavily  gilt 
bindings,  the  rich,  dark  Russia  leather  and  morocco 
of  the  folios.  The  footsteps  of  the  party  fell  noise 
lessly  upon  the  thick  carpet  and  almost  insensibly 
the  voices  of  the  visitors  dropped  to  a  lower  key. 
A  fine  large  wood  fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth, 
carefully  covered  with  a  metal  netting  lest  any  spark 
should  fly  out  and  cause  damage  to  the  treasures 
accumulated  in  the  neighbouring  shelves. 

"  Pray  make  yourself  at  home,  Mr.  Short,"  said  the 
squire,  coming  up  to  John.  "  You  may  find  something 
of  interest  here.  There  are  some  old  editions  of  the 
classics  that  are  thought  rare  —  some  specimens  of 
Venetian  printing,  too,  that  you  may  like  to  look  at. 
Mr.  Ambrose  can  tell  you  more  about  them  than  I." 

John's  feeling  of  antagonism,  and  even  his  resent 
ment  against  Mr.  Juxon,  roused  by  Nellie's  innocent 
remark  about  the  roses,  were  not  proof  against  the 
real  scholastic  passion  aroused  by  the  sight  of  rare  and 
valuable  books.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  divested 
himself  of  his  greatcoat  and  was  examining  the  books 
with  an  expression  of  delight  upon  his  face  which  was 
pleasant  to  see.  He  glanced  from  time  to  time  at 
the  other  persons  in  the  room  and  looked  very  often 
at  Mrs.  Goddard,  but  on  the  whole  he  was  profoundly 
interested  in  the  contents  of  the  library.  Mrs.  God 
dard  was  installed  in  a  huge  leathern  easy-chair  by  the 
fire,  and  the  squire  Avas  handing  her  one  after  another 
a  number  of  new  volumes  which  lay  upon  a  small 


98  A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

table,  and  which  she  appeared  to  examine  with  inter 
est.  Nellie  knew  where  to  look  for  her  favourite 
books  of  engravings  and  had  curled  herself  up  in  a 
corner  absorbed  in  "  Hyde's  Royal  Residences."  The 
vicar  went  to  look  for  something  he  wanted  to  con 
sult. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  our  new  friend  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Goddard  of  the  squire.  She  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
and  did  not  look  up  from  the  new  book  he  had  just 
handed  her. 

"  He  appears  to  have  a  very  peculiar  temper,"  said 
Mr.  Juxon.  "  But  he  looks  clever." 

"  What  do  you  think  he  was  talking  about  as  we 
came  through  the  park  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"What?" 

"  He  was  saying  that  he  saw  me  once  before  he 
went  to  college,  and  —  fancy  how  deliciously  boyish ! 
he  said  he  had  written  ever  so  many  Greek  odes  to 
my  memory  since  !  "  Mrs.  Goddard  laughed  a  little 
and  blushed  faintly. 

"  Let  us  hope,  for  the  sake  of  his  success,  that  you 
may  continue  to  inspire  him,"  said  the  squire  gravely. 
"I  have  no  doubt  the  odes  were  very  good." 

"So  he  said.     Fancy!" 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  99 


CHAPTER   VII. 

MRS.  GODDARD  did  not  mean  to  walk  home  with 
John;  but  on  the  other  hand  she  did  not  mean  to 
walk  with  the  squire.  She  revolved  the  matter  in 
her  mind  as  she  sat  in  the  library  talking  in  an  un 
dertone  with  Mr.  Juxon.  She  liked  the  great  room, 
the  air  of  luxury,  the  squire's  tea  and  the  squire's 
conversation.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  his  flow  of 
talk  was  more  abundant  to-day  than  it  had  been  for 
some  time;  whether  it  was  John's  presence  which 
stimulated  Mr.  Juxon's  imagination,  or  whether 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  suddenly  grown  more  interesting 
since  John  Short's  appearance  it  is  hard  to  say ;  it  is 
certain  that  Mr.  Juxon  talked  better  than  usual. 

The  afternoon,  however,  was  far  spent  and  the 
party  had  only  come  to  make  a  short  visit.  Mrs. 
Goddard  rose  from  her  seat. 

"Nellie,  child,  we  must  be  going  home,"  she  said, 
calling  to  the  little  girl  who  was  still  absorbed  in 
the  book  of  engravings  which  she  had  taken  to  the 
window  to  catch  the  last  of  the  waning  light. 

John  started  and  came  forward  with  alacrity. 
The  vicar  looked  up ;  Nellie  reluctantly  brought  her 
book  back. 

"It  is  very  early,"  objected  the  squire.  "Really, 
the  days  have  no  business  to  be  so  short." 

"  It  would  not  seem  like  Christmas  if  they  were 
long,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 


100       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"It  does  not  seem  like  Christmas  anyhow,"  re 
marked  John,  enigmatically.  No  one  understood 
his  observation  and  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  it. 
Whereupon  John's  previous  feeling  of  annoyance 
returned  and  he  went  to  look  for  his  greatcoat  in  the 
dark  corner  where  he  had  laid  it. 

"You  must  not  come  all  the  way  back  with  us," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard  as  they  all  went  out  into  the  hall 
and  began  to  put  on  their  warm  things  before  the 
fire.  "  Really  —  it  is  late.  Mr.  Ambrose  will  give 
me  his  arm." 

The  squire  insisted  however,  and  Stamboul,  who 
had  had  a  comfortable  nap  by  the  fire,  was  of  the 
same  opinion  as  his  master  and  plunged  wildly  at 
the  door. 

"Will  you  give  me  your  arm,  Mr.  Ambrose?"  said 
Mrs.  Goddard,  looking  rather  timidly  at  the  vicar  as 
they  stood  upon  the  broad  steps  in  the  sparkling 
evening  air.  She  felt  that  she  was  disappointing 
both  the  squire  and  John,  but  she  had  quite  made  up 
her  mind.  She  had  her  own  reasons.  The  vicar, 
good  man,  was  unconsciously  a  little  flattered  by  her 
choice,  as  with  her  hand  resting  on  the  sleeve  of  his 
greatcoat  he  led  the  way  down  the  park.  The  squire 
and  John  were  fain  to  follow  together,  but  Nellie  took 
her  mother's  hand,  and  Stamboul  walked  behind 
affecting  an  unusual  gravity. 

"  You  must  come  again  when  there  is  more  day 
light,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  to  his  companion. 

"Thank  you,"  said  John.  "You  are  very  good." 
He  intended  to  relapse  into  silence,  but  his  instinct 
made  him  ashamed  of  seeming  rude.  "  You  have  a 
magnificent  library,"  he  added  presently  in  a  rather 
cold  tone. 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  101 

"  You  have  been  used  to  much  better  ones  in  Cam 
bridge,"  said  the  squire,  modestly. 

"  Do  you  know  Cambridge  well,  Mr.  Juxon  ?  " 

"Very  well.     I  am  a  Cambridge  man,  myself." 

"Indeed?"  exclaimed  John,  immediately  discover 
ing  that  the  squire  was  not  so  bad  as  he  had  thought. 
"  Indeed !  I  had  no  idea.  Mr.  Ambrose  never  told 
me  that." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  aware  of  it,"  said  Mr. 
Juxon  quietly.  "The  subject  never  happened  to 
come  up." 

"How  odd!  "  remarked  John,  who  could  not  con 
ceive  of  associating  with  a  man  for  any  length  of 
time  without  asking  at  what  University  he  had 
been. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Mr.  Juxon.  "There 
are  lots  of  other  things  to  talk  about." 

"Oh  —  of  course,"  said  John,  in  a  tone  which  did 
not  express  conviction. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Ambrose  and  Mrs.  Goddard  walked 
briskly  in  front;  so  briskly  in  fact  that  Nellie  occa 
sionally  jumped  a  step,  as  children  say,  in  order  to 
keep  up  with  them. 

"  What  a  glorious  Christmas  eve !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Goddard,  as  they  turned  a  bend  in  the  drive  and 
caught  sight  of  the  western  sky  still  clear  and  red. 
"And  there  is  the  new  moon!"  The  slender  cres 
cent  was  hanging  just  above  the  fading  glow. 

"Oh  mamma,  have  you  wished?"  cried  Nellie. 
"You  must,  you  know,  when  you  see  the  new 
moon ! " 

Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  answer,  but  she  sighed 
faintly  and  drew  a  little  closer  to  the  worthy  vicar 
as  she  walked.  She  always  wished,  whether  there 


102       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

was  a  new  moon  or  not,  and  she  always  wished  the 
same  wish.  Perhaps  Mr.  Ambrose  understood,  for 
he  was  not  without  tact.  He  changed  the  subject. 

"How  do  you  like  our  John  Short?"  he  asked. 

"Very  much,  I  think,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"He  is  so  fresh  and  young." 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow.  I  was  sure  you  would  like 
him.  Is  he  at  all  like  what  you  fancied  he  would  be  ?  " 

"Well  no  —  not  exactly.  I  know  you  told  me 
how  he  looked,  but  I  always  thought  he  would  be 
rather  Byronic  —  the  poetical  type,  if  you  know  what 
I  mean." 

"He  has  a  great  deal  of  poetry  in  him,"  said  Mr. 
Ambrose  in  a  tone  of  profound  admiration.  "He 
writes  the  best  Greek  verse  I  ever  saw." 

"Oh  yes  —  I  daresay,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard  smil 
ing  in  the  dusk.  " I  am  sure  he  must  be  very  clever." 

So  they  chatted  quietly  as  they  walked  down  the 
park.  But  the  squire  and  John  did  not  make  prog 
ress  in  their  conversation,  and  by  the  time  they 
reached  the  gate  they  had  yielded  to  an  awkward 
silence.  They  had  both  been  annoyed  because  Mrs. 
Goddard  had  taken  the  vicar's  arm  instead  of  choos 
ing  one  of  themselves,  but  the  joint  sense  of  disap 
pointment  did  not  constitute  a  common  bond  of 
interest.  Either  one  would  have  suffered  anything 
rather  than  mention  Mrs.  Goddard  to  the  other  in  the 
course  of  the  walk.  And  yet  Mr.  Juxon  might  have 
been  John's  father.  At  the  gate  of  the  cottage  they 
separated.  The  squire  said  he  would  turn  back. 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  reached  her  destination.  John 
and  the  vicar  would  return  to  the  vicarage.  John 
tried  to  linger  a  moment,  to  get  a  word  with  Mrs. 
Goddard.  He  was  so  persistent  that  she  let  him  fol- 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  103 

low  her  through  the  wicket  gate  and  then  turned 
quickly. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  rather  suddenly,  hold 
ing  out  her  hand  to  say  good-bye. 

"  Oh,  nothing, "  answered  John.  "  That  is  —  would 
you  like  to  see  one  of  those  —  those  little  odes  of 
mine?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  if  you  like,"  she  answered  frankly, 
and  then  laughed.  "Of  course  I  would.  Good 
night." 

He  turned  and  fled.  The  vicar  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  eyed  him  rather  curiously  as  he  came  back. 
Mr.  Juxon  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
making  Stamboul  jump  over  his  stick,  backwards  and 
forwards. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  pausing  in  his  occupation. 
The  vicar  and  John  turned  away  and  walked  home 
wards.  Before  they  turned  the  corner  towards  the 
village  John  instinctively  looked  back.  Mr.  Juxon 
was  still  making  Stamboul  jump  the  stick  before  the 
cottage,  but  as  far  as  he  could  see  in  the  dusk,  Mrs. 
Goddard  and  Nellie  had  disappeared  within.  John 
felt  that  he  was  very  unhappy. 

"Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  began.  Then  he  stopped  and 
hesitated.  "Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  continued  at  last, 
"you  never  told  me  half  the  news  of  Billingsfield  in 
your  letters." 

"  You  mean  about  Mrs.  Goddard  ?  Well  —  no  —  I 
did  not  think  it  would  interest  you  very  much." 

"She  is  a  very  interesting  person,"  said  John. 
He  could  have  added  that  if  he  had  known  she  was 
in  Billingsfield  he  would  have  made  a  great  sacrifice 
in  order  to  come  down  for  a  day  to  make  her  acquaint 
ance.  But  he  did  not  say  it. 


104       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"She  is  a  great  addition,"  said  the  vicar. 

"Oh  —  very  great,  I  should  think." 

Christmas  eve  was  passed  at  the  vicarage  in  prep 
aration  for  the  morrow.  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  very 
active  in  binding  holly  wherever  it  was  possible  to 
put  it.  The  mince-pies  were  tasted  and  pronounced 
a  success,  and  old  Reynolds  was  despatched  to  the 
cottage  with  a  small  basket  containing  a  certain 
number  of  them  as  a  present  to  Mrs.  Goddard.  An 
emissary  appeared  from  the  Hall  with  a  variety  of 
articles  which  the  squire  begged  to  contribute  tow 
ards  the  vicar's  Christmas  dinner;  among  others  a 
haunch  of  venison  which  Mrs.  Ambrose  pronounced 
to  be  in  the  best  condition.  The  vicar  retorted  by 
sending  to  the  Hall  a  magnificent  Cottenham  cheese 
which,  as  a  former  Fellow  of  Trinity,  he  had  suc 
ceeded  in  obtaining.  Moreover  Mr.  Ambrose  him 
self  descended  to  the  cellar  and  brought  up  several 
bottles  of  Audit  ale  which  he  declared  must  be 
allowed  to  stand  some  time  in  the  pantry  in  order 
to  bring  out  the  flavour  and  to  be  thoroughly  settled. 
John  gave  his  assistance  wherever  it  was  needed  and 
enjoyed  vastly  the  old-fashioned  preparations  for 
Christmas  day.  It  was  long  since  the  season  had 
brought  him  such  rejoicing  and  he  intended  to  rejoice 
with  a  good  will  towards  men  and  especially  towards 
the  Ambroses.  After  dinner  the  whole  party,  con 
sisting  of  three  highly  efficient  persons  and  old  Rey 
nolds,  adjourned  to  the  church  to  complete  the 
decorations  for  the  morrow. 

The  church  of  Billingsfield,  known  as  St.  Mary's, 
was  quite  large  enough  to  contain  twice  the  entire 
population  of  the  parish.  It  was  built  upon  a  part 
of  the  foundations  of  an  ancient  abbey,  and  the  vicar 


A   TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH.  105 

was  very  proud  of  the  monument  of  a  crusading  Earl 
of  Oxford  which  he  had  caused  to  be  placed  in  the 
chancel,  it  having  been  discovered  in  the  old  chancel 
of  the  abbey  in  the  park,  far  beyond  the  present  lim 
its  of  the  church.  The  tower  was  the  highest  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  whole  building  was  of  gray 
rubble,  irregular  stones  set  together  with  a  crum 
bling  cement,  and  presented  an  appearance  which,  if 
not  architecturally  imposing,  was  at  least  sufficiently 
venerable.  At  the  present  time  the  aisles  were  full 
of  heaped-up  holly  and  wreaths ;  a  few  lamps  and  a 
considerable  number  of  tallow  candles  shed  a  rather 
feeble  light  amongst  the  pillars ;  a  crowd  of  school 
children,  not  yet  washed  for  the  morrow,  were  busy 
under  the  directions  of  the  schoolmistress  in  decorat 
ing  the  chancel ;  Mr.  Thomas  Reid  the  conservative 
sexton  was  at  the  top  of  a  tall  ladder,  presumably 
using  doubtful  language  to  himself  as  every  third 
nail  he  tried  to  drive  into  the  crevices  of  the  stone 
"crooked  hisself  and  larfed  at  him,"  as  he  expressed 
it;  the  organ  was  playing  and  a  dozen  small  boys 
with  three  or  four  men  were  industriously  practising 
the  anthem  "Arise,  Shine,"  producing  strains  which 
if  not  calculated  altogether  to  elevate  the  heart  by 
their  harmony,  would  certainly  have  caused  the  hair 
of  a  sensitive  musician  to  rise  on  end;  three  or  four 
of  the  oldest  inhabitants  were  leaning  on  their  sticks 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  great  stove  in  the  mid 
dle  aisle,  warming  themselves  and  grumbling  that 
"times  warn' t  as  they  used  to  be;"  Mr.  Abraham 
Boosey  was  noisily  declaring  that  he  had  "cartlods 
more  o'  thirn  greens  "  to  come,  and  Muggins,  who 
had  had  some  beer,  was  stumbling  cheerfully  against 
the  pews  in  his  efforts  to  bring  a  huge  load  of  fir 


106  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

branches  to  the  foot  of  Mr.  Thomas  Reid's  long 
ladder.  It  was  a  thorough  Christmas  scene  and  John 
Short's  heart  warmed  as  he  came  back  suddenly  to 
the  things  which  for  three  years  had  been  so  familiar 
to  him  and  which  he  had  so  much  missed  in  his  soli 
tude  at  Cambridge.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  set  to 
work  and  John  followed  their  example.  Even  the 
prickly  holly  leaves  were  pleasant  to  touch  and  there 
was  a  homely  joy  in  the  fir  branches  dripping  with 
half  melted  snow. 

Before  they  had  been  at  work  very  long,  John  was 
aware  of  a  little  figure,  muffled  in  furs  and  standing 
beside  him.  He  looked  up  and  saw  little  Nellie's 
lovely  face  and  long  brown  curls. 

"Can't  I  help  you,  Mr.  Short?"  she  asked  timidly. 
"I  like  to  help,  and  they  won't  let  me." 

"Who  are  'they'  ?"  asked  John  kindly,  but  look 
ing  about  for  the  figure  of  Nellie's  mother. 

"The  schoolmistress  and  Mrs.  Ambrose.  They 
said  I  should  dirty  my  frock." 

"Well,"  said  John,  doubtfully,  "I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  you  would.  But  you  might  hold  the  string 
for  me  —  that  won't  hurt  your  clothes,  you  know." 

"There  are  more  greens  this  year,"  remarked 
Nellie,  sitting  down  upon  the  end  of  the  choir  bench 
where  John  was  at  work  and  taking  the  ball  of  string 
in  her  hand.  "  Mr.  Juxon  has  sent  a  lot  from  the 
park." 

"He  seems  to  be  always  sending  things,"  said 
John,  who  had  no  reason  whatever  for  saying  so, 
except  that  the  squire  had  sent  a  hamper  to  the  vicar 
age.  "Did  he  stay  long  before  dinner?"  he  added, 
in  the  tone  people  adopt  when  they  hope  to  make 
children  talk. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        107 

"Stay  long  where?"  asked  Nellie  innocently. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  he  went  into  your  house  after  we 
left  you,"  answered  John. 

"  Oh  no  —  he  did  not  come  in,"  said  Nellie.  John 
continued  to  work  in  silence.  At  some  distance 
from  where  he  was,  Mrs.  Goddard  was  talking  to 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  He  could  see  her  graceful  figure, 
but  he  could  hardly  distinguish  her  features  in  the 
gloom  of  the  dimly-lighted  church.  He  longed  to 
leave  Nellie  and  to  go  and  speak  to  her,  but  an  un 
defined  feeling  of  hurt  pride  prevented  him.  He 
would  not  forgive  her  for  having  taken  the  vicar's 
arm  in  coming  home  through  the  park;  so  he  stayed 
where  he  was,  pricking  his  fingers  with  the  holly 
and  rather  impatiently  pulling  the  string  off  the  ball 
which  Nellie  held.  If  Mrs.  Goddard  wanted  to 
speak  to  him,  she  might  come  of  her  own  accord,  he 
thought,  for  he  felt  that  he  had  behaved  foolishly  in 
asking  if  she  wished  to  see  his  odes.  Somehow, 
when  he  thought  about  it,  the  odes  did  not  seem  so 
good  now  as  they  had  seemed  that  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  seen  him  at  first,  and  for 
some  time  she  remained  in  consultation  with  Mrs. 
Ambrose.  At  last  she  turned  and  looking  for  Nellie 
saw  that  she  was  seated  beside  John;  to  his  great 
delight  she  came  towards  him.  She  looked  more 
lovely  than  ever,  he  thought;  the  dark  fur  about  her 
throat  set  off  her  delicate,  sad  face  like  a  frame. 

"  Oh  —  are  you  here,  too,  Mr.  Short  ?  "  she  said. 

"Hard  at  work,  as  you  see,"  answered  John. 
"Are  you  going  to  help,  Mrs.  Goddard?  Won't  you 
help  me?" 

"I  wanted  to,"  said  Nellie,  appealing  to  her 
mother,  "  but  they  would  not  let  me,  so  I  can  only 
hold  the  string." 


108  A  TALE   OF  A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"Well,  dear  —  we  will  see  if  we  can  help  Mr. 
Short,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  good-naturedly,  and  she 
sat  down  upon  the  choir  bench. 

John  never  forgot  that  delightful  Christmas  Eve. 
For  nearly  two  hours  he  never  left  Mrs.  Goddard's 
side,  asking  her  advice  about  every  branch  and  bit 
of  holly  and  following  out  to  the  letter  her  most 
minute  suggestions.  He  forgot  all  about  the  squire 
and  about  the  walk  back  from  the  park,  in  the  delight 
of  having  Mrs.  Goddard  to  himself.  He  pushed  the 
school  children  about  and  spoke  roughly  to  old  Rey 
nolds  if  her  commands  were  not  instantly  executed; 
he  felt  in  the  little  crowd  of  village  people  that  he 
was  her  natural  protector,  and  he  wished  he  might 
never  have  anything  in  the  world  to  do  save  to  deco 
rate  a  church  in  her  company.  He  grew  more  and 
more  confidential  and  when  the  work  was  all  done 
he  felt  that  he  had  thoroughly  established  himself  in 
her  good  graces  and  went  home  to  dream  of  the  hap 
piest  day  he  had  ever  spent.  The  organ  ceased  play 
ing,  the  little  choir  dispersed,  the  school  children 
were  sent  home,  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey  retired  to  the 
bar  of  the  Duke's  Head,  Muggins  tenderly  embraced 
every  tombstone  he  met  on  his  way  through  the 
churchyard,  the  "gentlefolk"  followed  Reynolds' 
lantern  towards  the  vicarage,  and  Mr.  Thomas  Reid, 
the  conservative  and  melancholic  sexton,  put  out  the 
lights  and  locked  the  church  doors,  muttering  a  sour 
laudation  of  more  primitive  times,  when  "the  gen 
tlefolk  minded  their  business." 

For  the  second  time  that  day,  John  and  Mr. 
Ambrose  walked  as  far  as  the  cottage,  to  see  Mrs. 
Goddard  to  her  home.  When  they  parted  from  her 
and  Nellie,  John  was  careful  not  to  say  anything 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  109 

more  about  the  odes,  a  subject  to  which  Mrs.  God- 
dard  had  not  referred  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
John  thanked  her  rather  effusively  for  her  help  —  he 
could  never  have  got  through  those  choir  benches 
without  her,  he  said;  and  the  vicar  added  that  he 
was  very  much  obliged,  too,  and  surreptitiously  con 
veyed  to  Mrs.  Goddard's  hand  a  small  package  in 
tended  for  Miss  Nellie's  Christmas  stocking,  from 
him  and  his  wife,  and  which  he  had  forgotten  to  give 
earlier.  Nellie  was  destined  to  have  a  fuller  stock 
ing  than  usual  this  year,  for  the  squire  had  remem 
bered  her  as  well  as  Mr.  Ambrose. 

John  went  to  bed  in  his  old  room  at  the  vicarage 
protesting  that  he  had  enjoyed  the  first  da}'  of  his 
holiday  immensely.  As  he  blew  out  the  light,  he 
thought  suddenly  how  often  in  that  very  room  he  had 
gone  to  bed  dreaming  about  the  lady  in  black  and 
composing  verses  to  her,  till  somehow  the  Greek  ter 
minations  would  get  mixed  up  with  the  Latin  roots, 
the  quantities  all  seemed  to  change  places,  and  he 
used  to  fall  asleep  with  a  delicious  half  romantic  sense 
of  happiness  always  unfulfilled  yet  always  present. 
And  now  at  last  it  began  to  be  fulfilled  in  earnest ; 
he  had  met  the  lady  in  black  at  last,  had  spent  nearly 
half  a  day  in  her  company  and  was  more  persuaded 
than  ever  that  she  was  really  and  truly  his  ideal. 
He  did  not  go  to  sleep  so  soon  as  in  the  old  days,  and 
he  was  sorry  to  go  to  sleep  at  all ;  he  wanted  to  enjoy 
all  his  delicious  recollections  of  that  afternoon  before 
he  slept  and,  as  he  recapitulated  the  events  which 
had  befallen  him  and  recalled  each  expression  of  the 
face  that  had  charmed  him  and  every  intonation  of 
the  charmer's  voice,  he  felt  that  he  had  never  been 
really  happy  before,  that  no  amount  of  success  at 


110  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PAIUSH. 

Cambridge  could  give  him  half  the  delight  he  had 
experienced  during  one  hour  in  the  old  Billingsfield 
church,  and  that  altogether  life  anywhere  else  was 
not  worth  living.  To-morrow  he  would  see  Mrs. 
Goddard  again,  and  the  next  day  and  the  day  after 
that  and  then  —  "bother  the  future!"  ejaculated 
John,  and  went  to  sleep. 

He  awoke  early,  roused  by  the  loud  clanging  of 
the  Christmas  bells,  and  looking  out  he  saw  that  the 
day  was  fine  and  cold  and  bright  as  Christmas  day 
should  be,  and  generally  is.  The  hoar  frost  was 
frozen  into  fantastic  shapes  upon  his  little  window, 
the  snow  was  clinging  to  the  yew  branches  out 
side  and  the  robins  were  hopping  and  chirping  over 
the  thin  crust  of  frozen  snow  that  just  covered  the 
ground.  The  road  was  hard  and  brown  as  on  the 
previous  day,  and  the  ice  in  the  park  would  probably 
bear.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Goddard  would  skate  in  the 
afternoon  between  the  services,  but  then  —  Juxon 
would  be  there.  "Never  mind  Juxon,"  quoth  John 
to  himself,  "  it  is  Christmas  day !  " 

At  the  vicarage  and  elsewhere,  all  over  the  land, 
those  things  were  done  which  delight  the  heart  of 
Englishmen  at  the  merry  season.  Everybody  shook 
hands  with  everybody  else,  everybody  cried  "Merry 
Christmas !  "  to  his  neighbour  in  the  street,  with  an 
intonation  as  though  he  were  saying  something 
startlingly  new  and  brilliant  which  had  never  been 
said  before.  Every  labourer  who  had  a  new  smock- 
frock  put  it  on,  and  those  who  had  none  had  at  least 
a  bit  of  new  red  worsted  comforter  about  their  throats 
and  began  the  day  by  standing  at  their  doors  in  the 
cold  morning,  smoking  a  "ha'p'orth  o'  shag"  in  a 
new  clay  pipe,  greeting  each  other  across  the  village 


A   TALE   OF    A   LONELY  PARISH.  Ill 

street.  Muggins,  who  had  spent  a  portion  of  the 
night  in  exchanging  affectionate  Christmas  wishes 
with  the  tombstones  in  the  churchyard,  appeared  fresh 
and  ruddy  at  an  early  hour,  clad  in  the  long  black 
coat  and  tall  hat  which  he  was  accustomed  to  wear 
when  he  drove  Mr.  Boosey's  fly  on  great  festivals. 
Most  of  the  cottages  in  the  single  street  sported  a  bit 
of  holly  in  their  windows,  and  altogether  the  appear 
ance  of  Billingsfield  was  singularly  festive  arid 
mirthful.  At  precisely  ten  minutes  to  eleven  the 
vicar  and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  accompanied  by  John, 
issued  from  the  vicarage  and  went  across  the  road 
by  the  private  path  to  the  church.  As  they  entered 
the  porch  Mr.  Reid,  who  stood  solemnly  tolling  the 
small  bell,  popularly  nicknamed  the  "Ting-tang," 
and  of  which  the  single  rope  passed  down  close  to 
the  south  door,  vouchsafed  John  a  sour  smile  of 
recognition.  John  felt  as  though  he  had  come  home. 
Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie  appeared  a  moment  after 
wards  and  took  their  seats  in  the  pew  traditionally 
belonging  to  the  cottage,  behind  that  of  the  squire 
who  was  always  early,  and  the  sight  of  whose 
smoothly  brushed  hair  and  brown  beard  was  a  con 
stant  source  of  satisfaction  to  Mrs.  Ambrose.  John 
and  Mrs.  Ambrose  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
aisle,  but  John's  eyes  strayed  very  frequently  tow 
ards  Mrs.  Goddard;  so  frequently  indeed  that  she 
noticed  it  and  leaned  far  back  in  her  seat  to  avoid 
his  glance.  Whereupon  John  blushed  and  felt  that 
the  vicar,  who  was  reading  the  Second  Lesson,  had 
probably  noticed  his  distraction.  It  was  hard  to 
realise  that  two  years  and  a  half  had  passed  since  he 
had  sat  in  that  same  pew;  perhaps,  however,  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Goddard  helped  him  to  understand 


112       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

the  lapse  of  time.  But  for  her  it  would  have  been 
very  hard;  for  the  vicar's  voice  sounded  precisely  as 
it  used  to  sound;  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  not  lost  her 
habit  of  removing  one  glove  and  putting  it  into  her 
prayer  book  as  a  mark  while  she  found  the  hymn  in 
the  accompanying  volume;  the  bright  decorations 
looked  as  they  looked  years  ago  above  the  organ  and 
round  the  chancel;  from  far  down  the  church,  just 
before  the  sermon,  came  the  old  accustomed  sound 
of  small  boys  shuffling  their  hobnailed  shoes  upon 
the  stone  floor  and  the  audible  guttural  whisper  of 
the  churchwarden  admonishing  them  to  "mind  the 
stick; "  the  stained-glass  windows  admitted  the  same 
pleasant  light  as  of  yore  —  all  was  unchanged.  But 
Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie  occupied  the  cottage  pew, 
and  their  presence  alone  was  sufficient  to  mark  to 
John  the  fact  that  he  was  now  a  man. 

The  service  was  sympathetic  to  John  Short.  He 
liked  the  simplicity  of  it,  even  the  rough  singing  of 
the  choir,  as  compared  with  the  solemn  and  magnifi 
cent  musical  services  of  Trinity  College  Chapel.  But 
it  seemed  very  long  before  it  was  all  over  and  he  was 
waiting  for  Mrs.  Goddard  outside  the  church  door. 

There  were  more  greetings,  more  "  Merry  Christ 
mas  "  and  "Many  happy  returns."  Mrs.  Goddard 
looked  more  charming  than  ever  and  was  quite  as 
cordial  as  on  the  previous  evening. 

"  How  much  better  it  all  looked  this  morning  by 
daylight,"  she  said. 

"I  think  it  looked  very  pretty  last  night,"  an 
swered  John.  "There  is  nothing  so  delightful  as 
Christmas  decorations,  is  there?" 

"  Perhaps  you  will  come  down  next  year  and  help 
us  again?"  suggested  Mrs.  Goddard. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  113 

"Yes  —  well,  I  might  come  at  Easter,  for  that 
matter,"  answered  the  young  man,  who  after  fincL 
ing  it  impossible  to  visit  Billingsfield  during  two 
years  and  a  half,  now  saw  no  difficulty  whatever  in 
the  way  of  making  two  visits  in  the  course  of  six 
months.  "  Do  you  still  decorate  at  Easter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  yes  —  do  you  think  you  can  come  ?  "  she  said 
pleasantly.  "I  thought  you  were  to  be  very  busy 
just  then." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  answered  John.  "But  of 
course  I  could  come,  you  know,  if  it  were  necessary." 

"Hardly  exactly  necessary — "  Mrs.  Goddard 
laughed. 

"The  doctor  told  me  some  relaxation  was  abso 
lutely  indispensable  for  my  health,"  said  John  rather 
sententiously. 

"You  don't  really  look  very  ill  — are  you?"  She 
seemed  incredulous. 

"  Oh  no,  of  course  not  —  only  a  little  overworked 
sometimes." 

"In  that  case  I  have  no  doubt  it  would  do  you 
good,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  asked  John,  hopefully. 

"Oh  —  that  is  a  matter  for  your  doctor  to  decide. 
I  cannot  possibly  tell,"  she  answered. 

"  I  think  you  would  make  a  very  good  doctor,  Mrs. 
Goddard,"  said  John  venturing  on  a  bolder  flight. 

"Really  —  I  never  thought  of  trying  it,"  she  re 
plied  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Good  morning,  Mr.  Am 
brose.  Nellie  wants  to  thank  you  for  your  beautiful 
present.  It  was  really  too  good  of  you." 

The  vicar  came  out  of  the  vestry  and  joined  the 
group  in  the  path.  Mrs.  Ambrose,  who  had  been 
asking  Tom  Judd's  wife  about  her  baby,  also  came 


114  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

up,  and  the  squire,  who  had  been  presenting  Mr. 
Reid  with  ten  shillings  for  his  Christmas  box  and 
who  looked  singularly  bereaved  without  the  faithful 
Stamboul  at  his  heels,  sauntered  up  and  began  con 
gratulating  everybody.  In  the  distance  the  last  of 
the  congregation,  chiefly  the  old  women  and  cripples 
who  could  not  keep  up  with  the  rest,  hobbled  away 
through  the  white  gate  of  the  churchyard. 

It  had  been  previously  agreed  that  if  the  ice  would 
bear  there  should  be  skating  in  the  afternoon  and  the 
squire  was  anxious  to  inform  the  party  that  the  pond 
was  in  excellent  condition. 

"As  black  as  your  hat,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"  Stamboul  and  I  have  been  sliding  all  over  it,  so  of 
course  it  would  bear  an  ox.  It  did  not  crack  any 
where." 

"Do  you  skate,  Mrs.  Goddard?"  asked  John. 

"Not  very  well  —  not  nearly  so  well  as  Nellie. 
But  I  am  very  fond  of  it." 

"  Will  you  let  me  push  you  about  in  a  chair,  then  ? 
It  is  capital  fun." 

"Very  good  fun  for  me,  no  doubt,"  answered  Mrs. 
Goddard,  laughing. 

"I  would  rather  do  it  than  anything  else,"  said 
John  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "  It  is  splendid  exer 
cise,  pushing  people  about  in  chairs." 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  squire,  heartily.  "We  will 
take  turns,  Mr.  Short."  The  suggestion  did  not 
meet  with  any  enthusiastic  response  from  John,  who 
wished  Mr.  Juxon  were  not  able  to  skate. 

Poor  John,  he  had  but  one  idea,  which  consisted 
simply  in  getting  Mrs.  Goddard  to  himself  as  often 
and  as  long  as  possible.  Unfortunately  this  idea  did 
not  coincide  with  Mr.  Juxon 's  views.  Mr.  Juxon 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  115 

was  an  older,  slower  and  calmer  man  than  the  en 
thusiastic  young  scholar,  and  though  very  far  from 
obtruding  his  views  or  making  any  assertion  of  his 
rights,  was  equally  far  from  forgetting  them.  He 
was  a  man  more  of  actions  than  words.  He  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  monopolising  Mrs.  Goddard's  society 
for  months  and  he  had  no  intention  of  relinquishing 
his  claims,  even  for  the  charitable  purpose  of  allow 
ing  a  poor  student  to  enjoy  his  Christmas  holiday 
and  bit  of  romance  undisturbed.  If  John  had  pre 
sented  himself  as  a  boy,  it  might  have  been  different; 
but  John  emphatically  considered  himself  a  man,  and 
the  squire  was  quite  willing  to  treat  him  as  such, 
since  he  desired  it.  That  is  to  say  he  would  not 
permit  him  to  "  cut  him  out "  as  he  would  have  ex 
pressed  it.  The  result  of  the  position  in  which  John 
and  Mr.  Juxon  soon  found  themselves  was  to  be 
expected. 


116  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PAKISH. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

JOHN  did  not  sleep  so  peacefully  nor  dream  so 
happily  that  night  as  on  the  night  before.  The 
course  of  true  love  had  not  run  smooth  that  after 
noon.  The  squire  had  insisted  upon  having  his 
share  of  the  lovely  Mrs.  Goddard's  society  and  she 
herself  had  not  seemed  greatly  disturbed  at  a  tem 
porary  separation  from  John.  The  latter  amused 
her  for  a  little  while ;  the  former  held  the  position 
of  a  friend  whose  conversation  she  liked  better  than 
that  of  other  people.  John  was  disappointed  and 
thought  of  going  back  to  Cambridge  the  next  day. 
So  strong,  indeed,  was  his  sudden  desire  to  leave 
Billingsfield  without  finishing  his  visit,  that  before 
going  to  bed  he  had  packed  some  of  his  belongings 
into  his  small  portmanteau;  the  tears  almost  stood 
in  his  eyes  as  he  busied  himself  about  his  room  and 
he  muttered  certain  formula  of  self-accusation  as  he 
collected  his  things,  saying  over  and  over  in  his 
heart  —  "  What  a  fool  I  am !  Why  should  she  care 
for  me?  What  am  I  that  she  should  care  for  me?" 
etc.  etc.  Then  he  opened  his  window  and  looked 
at  the  bright  stars  which  shone  out  over  the  old  yew 
tree ;  but  it  was  exceedingly  cold,  and  so  he  shut  it 
again  and  went  to  bed,  feeling  very  uncomfortable 
and  unhappy. 

But  when  he  awoke  in  the  morning  he  looked  at 
his  half-packed  portmanteau  and  laughed,  and  in- 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  117 

stead  of  saying  "What  a  fool  I  am!  "  he  said  "What 
a  fool  I  was !  "  —  which  is  generally  and  in  most  con 
ditions  of  human  affairs  a  much  wiser  thing  to  say. 
Then  he  carefully  took  everything  out  of  the  port 
manteau  again  and  replaced  things  as  they  had  lain 
before  in  his  room,  lest  perchance  Susan,  the  house 
maid,  should  detect  what  had  passed  through  his 
mind  on  the  previous  evening  and  should  tell  Mrs. 
Ambrose.  And  from  all  this  it  appears  that  John 
was  exceedingly  young,  as  indeed  he  was,  in  spite 
of  his  being  nearly  one  and  twenty  years  of  age. 
But  doubtless  if  men  were  willing  to  confess  their 
disappointments  and  foolish,  impetuous  resolutions, 
many  would  be  found  who  have  done  likewise,  being 
in  years  much  older  than  John  Short.  Unfortu 
nately  for  human  nature  most  men  would  rather 
confess  to  positive  wrong-doing  than  to  any  such 
youthful  follies  as  these,  while  they  are  young;  and 
when  they  are  old  they  would  rather  be  thought 
young  and  foolish  than  confess  the  evil  deeds  they 
have  actually  done. 

John,  however,  did  not  moralise  upon  his  situa 
tion.  The  weather  was  again  fine  and  as  he  dressed 
his  spirits  rose.  He  became  magnanimous  and  re 
solved  to  forget  yesterday  and  make  the  most  of  to 
day.  He  would  see  Mrs.  Goddard  of  course ;  perhaps 
he  would  show  her  a  little  coldness  at  first,  giving 
her  to  understand  that  she  had  not  treated  him  well 
on  the  previous  afternoon;  then  he  would  interest 
her  by  his  talk  —  he  would  repeat  to  her  one  of  those 
unlucky  odes  and  translate  it  for  her  benefit,  making 
use  of  the  freedom  he  would  thus  get  in  order  to 
make  her  an  unlimited  number  of  graceful  compli 
ments.  Perhaps,  too,  he  ought  to  pay  more  atten- 


118       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

tion  to  Nellie,  if  he  wished  to  conciliate  her  mother. 
Women,  he  reflected,  have  such  strange  prejudices! 

He  wondered  whether  it  would  be  proper  for  him 
to  call  upon  Mrs.  Goddard.  He  was  not  quite  sure 
about  it,  and  he  was  rather  ashamed  of  having  so 
little  knowledge  of  the  world;  but  he  believed  that 
in  Billingsfield  he  might  run  the  risk.  There  had 
been  talk  of  skating  again  that  morning,  and  so, 
about  ten  o'clock,  John  told  Mr.  Ambrose  he  would 
go  for  a  short  walk  and  then  join  them  all  at  the  pond 
in  the  park.  The  project  seemed  good,  and  he  put 
it  into  execution.  As  he  walked  up  the  frozen  road, 
he  industriously  repeated  in  his  mind  the  Greek  verses 
he  was  going  to  translate  to  Mrs.  Goddard;  he  had 
no  copy  of  them  but  his  memory  was  very  good.  He 
met  half  a  dozen  labourers,  strolling  about  with  their 
pipes  until  it  was  time  to  go  and  have  a  pint  of  beer, 
as  is  their  manner  upon  holidays ;  they  touched  their 
hats  to  him,  remembering  his  face  well,  and  he 
smiled  happily  at  the  rough  fellows,  contrasting  his 
situation  with  theirs,  who  from  the  misfortune  of 
social  prejudice  were  not  permitted  to  go  and  call 
upon  Mrs.  Goddard.  His  heart  beat  rather  fast  as 
he  went  up  to  the  door  of  the  cottage,  and  for  one 
unpleasant  moment  he  again  doubted  whether  it  was 
proper  for  him  to  make  such  an  early  visit.  But 
being  bent  on  romantic  adventure  he  rang  boldly 
and  inquired  for  Mrs.  Goddard. 

She  was  surprised  to  see  John  at  that  hour  and 
alone;  but  it  did  not  enter  her  head  to  refuse  him 
admittance.  Indeed  as  he  stood  in  the  little  passage 
he  heard  the  words  which  passed  between  her  and 
Martha. 

"What  is  it,  Martha?" 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  119 

"It's  a  young  gentleman,  mam.  I  rather  think, 
mam,  it's  the  young  gentleman  that's  stopping  at 
the  vicarage." 

"Oh  —  ask  him  to  come  in." 

"In  'ere,  mam?" 

"No  —  into  the  sitting-room,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard, 
who  was  busy  in  the  dining-room. 

John  was  accordingly  ushered  in  and  told  to  wait 
a  minute ;  which  he  did,  surveying  with  surprise  the 
beautiful  pictures,  the  rich  looking  furniture  and 
the  valuable  objects  that  lay  about  upon  the  tables. 
He  experienced  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  for  he  felt  sure 
that  Mrs.  Goddard  possessed  another  qualification 
which  he  had  unconsciously  attributed  to  her  —  that 
of  being  accustomed  to  a  certain  kind  of  luxury, 
which  in  John's  mind  was  mysteriously  connected 
with  his  romance.  It  is  one  of  the  most  undefinable 
of  the  many  indefinite  feelings  to  which  young  men 
in  love  are  subject,  especially  young  men  who  have 
been,  or  are,  very  poor.  They  like  to  connect  ideas 
of  wealth  and  comfort,  even  of  a  luxurious  existence, 
with  the  object  of  their  affections.  They  desire  the 
world  of  love  to  be  new  to  them,  and  in  order  to  be 
wholly  new  in  their  experience,  it  must  be  rich. 
The  feeling  is  not  so  wholly  unworthy  as  it  might 
seem;  they  instinctively  place  their  love  upon  a 
pedestal  and  require  its  surroundings  to  be  of  a 
better  kind  than  such  as  they  have  been  accustomed 
to  in  their  own  lives.  King  Cophetua,  being  a 
king,  could  afford  to  love  the  beggar  maid,  and  a 
very  old  song  sings  of  a  "lady  who  loved  a  swine," 
but  the  names  of  the  poor  young  men  who  have  loved 
above  their  fortune  and  station  are  innumerable  as 
the  swallows  in  spring.  John  saw  that  Mrs.  God- 


120  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

dard  was  much  richer  than  he  had  ever  been,  and 
without  the  smallest  second  thought  was  pleased. 
In  a  few  moments  she  entered  the  room.  John  had 
his  speech  ready. 

"  I  thought,  if  you  were  going  to  skate,  I  would 
call  and  ask  leave  to  go  with  you,"  he  said  glibly, 
as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Oh  —  thanks.     But  is  not  it  rather  early  ?  " 

"It  is  twenty  minutes  past  ten,"  said  John,  look 
ing  at  the  clock. 

"Well,  let  us  get  warm  before  starting,"  said  Mrs. 
Goddard,  sitting  down  by  the  fire.  "It  is  so  cold 
this  morning." 

John  thought  she  was  lovely  to  look  at  as  she  sat 
there,  warming  her  hands  and  shielding  her  face  from 
the  flame  with  them  at  the  same  time.  She  looked 
at  him  and  smiled  pleasantly,  but  said  nothing. 
She  was  still  a  little  surprised  to  see  him  and  won 
dered  whether  he  himself  had  anything  to  say. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "it  is  very  cold  —  traditional 
Christmas  weather.  Could  not  be  finer,  in  fact, 
could  it?" 

"  No< —  it  could  not  be  finer,"  echoed  Mrs.  Goddard, 
suppressing  a  smile.  Then  as  though  to  help  him 
out  of  his  embarrassment  by  giving  an  impulse  to 
the  conversation,  she  added,  "  By  the  bye,  Mr.  Short, 
while  we  are  warming  ourselves  why  do  not  you  let 
me  hear  one  of  your  odes  ?  " 

She  meant  it  kindly,  thinking  it  would  give  him 
pleasure,  as  indeed  it  did.  John's  heart  leaped  and 
he  blushed  all  over  his  face  with  delight.  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  not  quite  sure  whether  she  had  done 
right,  but  she  attributed  his  evident  satisfaction  to 
his  vanity  as  a  scholar. 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  121 

"Certainly,"  he  said  with  alacrity,  "if  you  would 
like  to  hear  it.  Would  you  care  to  hear  me  repeat 
the  Greek  first?" 

"  Oh,  of  all  things.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever 
heard  Greek." 

John  cleared  his  throat  and  began,  glancing  at  his 
hostess  rather  nervously  from  time  to  time.  But 
his  memory  never  failed  him,  and  he  went  on  to  the 
end  without  a  break  or  hesitation. 

"  How  do  you  think  it  sounds  ?  "  he  asked  timidly 
when  he  had  finished. 

"It  sounds  very  funny,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "I 
had  no  idea  Greek  sounded  like  that  —  but  it  has  a 
pleasant  rhythm." 

"That  is  the  thing,"  said  John,  enthusiastically. 
"  I  see  you  really  appreciate  it.  Of  course  nobody 
knows  how  the  ancients  pronounced  Greek,  and  if 
one  pronounced  it  as  the  moderns  do,  it  would  sound 
all  wrong  —  but  the  rhythm  is  the  thing,  you  know. 
It  is  impossible  to  get  over  that." 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  not  positively  sure  what  he 
meant  by  "getting  over  the  rhythm;  "  possibly  John 
himself  could  not  have  defined  his  meaning  very 
clearly.  But  his  cheeks  glowed  and  he  was  very 
much  pleased. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  confidently. 
"But  what  does  it  all  mean,  Mr.  Short?" 

"  Would  you  really  like  to  know  ?  "  asked  John  in 
fresh  embarrassment.  He  suddenly  realised  how 
wonderfully  delightful  it  was  to  be  repeating  his 
own  poetry  to  the  woman  for  whom  it  was  written. 

"  Indeed  yes  —  what  is  the  use  of  your  telling  me 
all  sorts  of  things  in  Greek,  if  you  do  not  tell  me 
what  they  mean  ?  " 


122  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"Yes  —  you  will  promise  not  to  be  offended?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard;  then  blushing  a 
little  she  added,  "  it  is  quite  —  I  mean  —  quite  the 
sort  of  thing,  is  not  it?" 

"Oh  quite,"  said  John,  blushing  too,  but  looking 
grave  for  a  moment.  Then  he  repeated  the  English 
translation  of  the  verses  which,  as  they  were  cer 
tainly  not  so  good  as  the  original,  may  be  omitted 
here.  They  set  forth  that  in  the  vault  of  the  world's 
night  a  new  star  had  appeared  which  men  had  not 
yet  named,  nor  would  be  likely  to  name  until  the 
power  of  human  speech  should  be  considerably  in 
creased,  and  the  verses  dwelt  upon  the  theme,  turning 
it  and  revolving  it  in  several  ways,  finally  declaring 
that  the  far-darting  sun  must  look  out  for  his  inter 
ests  unless  he  meant  to  be  outshone  by  the  new  star. 
Translated  into  English  there  was  nothing  very  re 
markable  about  the  performance  though  the  original 
Greek  ode  was  undoubtedly  very  good  of  its  kind. 
But  Mrs.  Goddard  was  determined  to  be  pleased. 

"I  think  it  is  charming,"  she  said,  when  John  had 
reached  the  end  and  paused  for  her  criticism. 

"  The  Greek  is  very  much  better,"  said  John  doubt 
fully.  "  I  cannot  write  English  verses  —  they  seem 
to  me  so  much  harder." 

"I  daresay,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "But  did  you 
really  write  that  when  —  "  she  stopped  not  knowing 
exactly  how  to  express  herself.  But  John  had  his 
answer  ready. 

"Oh,  I  wrote  ever  so  many,"  he  said,  "and  I  have 
got  them  all  at  Cambridge.  But  that  is  the  only 
one  I  quite  remember.  I  wrote  them  just  after  the 
day  when  I  waked  up  Muggins  —  the  only  time  I 
had  seen  you  till  now.  I  think  I  could  —  " 


A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  123 

"How  funny  it  seems,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "with 
out  knowing  a  person,  to  write  verses  to  them!  How 
did  you  manage  to  do  it?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  think  —  I  am  quite  sure 

—  I  could  write  much  better  things  to  you  now." 

"  Oh,  that  is  impossible  —  quite  absurd,  Mr.  Short," 
said  Mrs.  Goddard,  laughing  more  gaily  than  usual. 

"Why?"  asked  John,  somewhat  emboldened  by 
his  success.  "  I  do  not  see  why,  if  one  has  an  ideal, 
you  know,  one  should  not  understand  it  much  better 
when  one  comes  near  to  it." 

"  Yes  —  but  —  how  can  I  possibly  be  your  ideal  ?  " 
She  felt  herself  so  much  older  than  John  that  she 
thought  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  be  annoyed ;  so 
she  treated  him  in  a  matter  of  fact  way,  and  was 
really  amused  at  his  talk. 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  answered  John  stoutly. 
"You  might  be  any  man's  ideal." 

"Oh,  really  — "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Goddard,  some 
what  startled  at  the  force  of  the  sweeping  compliment. 
To  be  told  point-blank,  even  by  an  enthusiastic  youth 
of  one  and  twenty,  that  one  is  the  ideal  woman,  must 
be  either  very  pleasant  or  very  startling. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said  quickly,  before  he  could 
answer  her,  "  you  know  of  course  I  am  very  ignorant 

—  yes  I  am  —  but  will  you  please  tell  me  what  is  an 
'ideal'?" 

"Why  —  yes,"  said  John,  "it  is  very  easy.  Ideal 
comes  from  idea.  Plato  meant,  by  the  idea,  the  per 
fect  model  —  well,  do  you  see  ?  " 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  It  is  very  simple.  When  I,  when  anybody,  says 
you  are  the  ideal  woman,  it  is  meant  that  you  are 
the  perfect  model,  the  archetype  of  a  woman." 


124       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"Yes  —  but  that  is  absurd,"  said  his  companion 
rather  coldly. 

"I  am  sorry  that  it  should  seem  absurd,"  said 
John  in  a  persuasive  tone ;  "  it  seems  very  natural  to 
me.  A  man  thinks  for  a  long  time  about  everything 
that  most  attracts  him  and  then,  on  a  sudden,  he  sees 
it  all  before  him,  quite  real  and  alive,  and  then  he 
says  he  has  realised  his  ideal.  But  you  liked  the 
verses,  Mrs.  Goddard?"  he  added  quickly,  hoping 
to  bring  back  the  smile  that  had  vanished  from  her 
face.  He  had  a  strong  impression  that  he  had  been 
a  little  too  familiar.  Probably  Mrs.  Goddard  thought 
so  too. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  think  they  are  very  nice,"  she  answered. 
But  the  smile  did  not  come  back.  She  was  not  dis 
pleased,  but  she  was  not  pleased  either;  she  was 
wondering  how  far  this  boy  would  go  if  she  would 
let  him.  John,  however,  felt  unpleasantly  doubtful 
about  what  he  had  done. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  displeased,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least,"  said  she.  "Shall  we  go  to 
the  park  and  skate  ?  " 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  will  skate  to-day,"  said 
John,  foolishly.  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him  in 
unfeigned  surprise. 

"  Why  not  ?     I  thought  it  was  for  that  - 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  John  quickly.  "Only  it  is 
not  very  amusing  to  skate  when  Mr.  Juxon  is  push 
ing  you  about  in  a  chair." 

"Really  —  why  should  not  he  push  me  about,  if  I 
like  it?" 

"If  you  like  it  —  that  is  different,"  answered  John 
impatiently. 

Mrs.  Goddard  began  to  think  that  John  was  very 


A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY   PAHISH.  125 

like  a  spoiled  child,  and  she  resented  his  evident 
wish  to  monopolise  her  society.  She  left  the  room 
to  get  ready  for  the  walk,  vaguely  wishing  that  he 
had  not  come. 

"I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself  again,"  said  John 
to  himself,  when  he  was  left  alone ;  and  he  suddenly 
wished  he  could  get  out  of  the  house  without  seeing 
her  again.  But  before  he  had  done  wishing,  she 
returned. 

"Where  is  Miss  Nellie?"  he  asked  gloomily,  as 
they  walked  down  the  path.  "  I  hope  she  is  coming 
too." 

"  She  went  up  to  the  pond  with  Mr.  Juxon,  just 
before  you  came." 

"  Do  you  let  her  go  about  like  that,  without  you  ?  " 
asked  John  severely. 

"Why  not?  Really,  Mr.  Short,"  said  Mrs.  God- 
dard,  glancing  up  at  his  face,  "either  you  dislike 
Mr.  Juxon  very  much,  or  else  I  think  you  take  a 
good  deal  upon  yourself  in  remarking  —  in  this 
way  —  " 

She  was  naturally  a  little  timid,  but  John's  youth 
and  what  she  considered  as  his  extraordinary  pre 
sumption  inspired  her  with  courage  to  protest  The 
effect  upon  John  was  instantaneous. 

"Pray  forgive  me,"  he  said  humbly,  "I  am  very 
silly.  •  I  daresay  you  are  quite  right  and  I  do  not 
like  Mr.  Juxon.  Not  that  I  have  the  smallest  reason 
for  not  liking  him,"  he  continued  quickly,  "it  is  a 
mere  personal  antipathy,  a  mere  idea,  I  daresay  — 
very  foolish  of  me." 

"It  is  very  foolish  to  take  unreasonable  dislikes  to 
people  one  knows  nothing  about,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  Will  you  please  open  the  gate  ?  "  They  were  stand- 


126  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

ing  before  the  bars,  but  John  was  so  much  disturbed 
in  mind  that  he  stood  still,  quite  forgetting  to  raise 
the  long  iron  latch. 

"  Dear  me  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  cannot  imagine 
what  I  was  thinking  of,"  he  said,  making  the  most 
idiotic  excuse  current  in  English  idiom. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  with  a  little  laugh, 
as  he  held  the  gate  back  for  her  to  pass.  It  was  a 
plain  white  gate  with  stone  pillars,  and  there  was 
no  gatehouse.  People  who  came  to  the  Hall  were 
expected  to  open  it  for  themselves.  Mrs.  Goddard 
was  so  much  amused  at  John's  absence  of  mind  that 
her  good  humour  returned,  and  he  felt  that  since  that 
object  was  attained  he  no  longer  regretted  his  folly 
in  the  least.  The  cloud  that  had  darkened  the  hori 
zon  of  his  romance  had  passed  quickly  away,  and 
once  more  he  said  inwardly  that  he  was  enjoying  the 
happiest  days  of  his  life.  If  for  a  moment  the  image 
of  Mr.  Juxon  entered  the  field  of  his  imaginative 
vision  in  the  act  of  pushing  Mrs.  Goddard's  chair 
upon  the  ice,  he  mentally  ejaculated  "bother  the 
squire !  "  as  he  had  done  upon  the  previous  night, 
and  soon  forgot  all  about  him.  The  way  through 
the  park  was  long,  the  morning  was  delightful  and 
Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry. 

"I  wish  the  winter  would  last  for  ever,"  he  said 
presently. 

"So  do  I,"  answered  his  companion,  "it  is  the 
pleasantest  time  of  the  year.  One  does  not  feel  that 
nature  is  dead  because  one  is  sure  she  will  very  soon 
be  alive  again." 

"That  is  a  charming  idea,"  said  John,  "one  might 
make  a  good  subject  of  it." 

"  It  is  a  little  old,  perhaps.  I  think  I  have  heard 
it  before  — have  not  you? " 


A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  127 

"All  good  ideas  are  old.  The  older  the  better," 
said  John  confidently.  Mrs.  Goddard  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  teazing  him  a  little.  They 
had  grown  very  intimate  in  forty-eight  hours ;  it  had 
taken  six  months  for  Mr.  Juxon  to  reach  the  point 
John  had  won  in  two  days. 

"Are  they?"  she  asked  quietly.  "Is  that  the 
reason  you  selected  me  for  the  'idea'  of  your  ode, 
which  you  explained  to  me?" 

"You?"  said  John  in  astonishment.  Then  he 
laughed.  "  Why,  you  are  not  any  older  than  I  am !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  inquired  with  a  demure 
smile.  "I  am  very  much  older  than  you  think." 

"  You  must  be  —  I  mean,  you  know,  you  must  be 
older  than  you  look." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  still  smiling, 
and  just  resting  the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  his  arm 
as  she  stepped  across  a  slippery  place  in  the  frozen 
road.  "Yes,  I  am  a  great  deal  older  than  you." 

John  would  have  liked  very  much  to  ask  her  age, 
but  even  to  his  youthful  and  unsophisticated  mind 
such  a  question  seemed  almost  too  personal.  He  did 
not  really  believe  that  she  was  more  than  five  years 
older  than  he,  and  that  seemed  to  be  no  difference  at 
all. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  am  nearly  one  and 
twenty." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  had  heard 
every  detail  concerning  John  from  Mr.  Ambrose, 
again  and  again.  "Just  think,"  she  added  with  a 
laugh,  "  only  one  and  twenty !  Why  when  I  was  one 
and  twenty  I  was  —  "  she  stopped  short. 

"  What  were  you  doing  then  ?  "  asked  John,  trying 
not  to  seem  too  curious. 


128  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"I  was  living  in  London,"  she  said  quietly.  She 
half  enjoyed  his  disappointment. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  daresay.  But  what  — well,  I 
suppose  I  ought  not  to  ask  any  questions." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  she.  "  It  is  very  rude  to  ask 
a  lady  questions  about  her  age." 

"I  do  not  mean  to  be  rude  again,"  said  John,  pre 
tending  to  laugh.  "  Have  you  always  been  fond  of 
skating?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  eye  upon  a  distant 
tree,  and  trying  to  look  unconscious. 

"  No  —  I  only  learned  since  I  came  here.  Besides, 
I  skate  very  badly." 

"Did  Mr.  Juxon  teach  you?"  asked  John,  still 
gazing  into  the  distance.  From  not  looking  at  the 
path  he  slipped  on  a  frozen  puddle  and  nearly  fell. 
Whereat,  as  usual,  when  he  did  anything  awkward, 
he  blushed  to  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

"Take  care,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  calmly.  "You 
will  fall  if  you  don't  look  where  you  are  going.  No; 
Mr.  Juxon  was  not  here  last  year.  He  only  came 
here  in  the  summer." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  he  has  always  been  here," 
said  John,  trying  to  recover  his  equanimity.  "  Then 
I  suppose  Mr.  Ambrose  taught  you  to  skate  ?  " 

"Exactly  —  Mr.  Ambrose  taught  me.  He  skates 
very  well." 

"So  will  you,  with  a  little  more  practice,"  an 
swered  her  companion  in  a  rather  patronising  tone. 
He  intended  perhaps  to  convey  the  idea  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  would  improve  in  the  exercise  if  she  would 
actually  skate,  and  with  him,  instead  of  submitting 
to  be  pushed  about  in  a  chair  by  Mr.  Juxon. 

"Oh,  I  daresay,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  indifferently. 
"  We  shall  soon  be  there,  now.  I  can  hear  them  on 
the  ice." 


A   TALE   OF  A  LOXELY  PAEISH.  129 

"Too  soon,"  said  John  with  regret. 

"I  thought  you  liked  skating  so  much." 

"I  like  walking  with  you  much  better,"  he  replied, 
and  he  glanced  at  her  face  to  see  if  his  speech  pro 
duced  any  sign  of  sympathy. 

"  You  have  walked  with  me ;  now  you  can  skate 
with  Nellie,"  suggested  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"You  talk  as  though  I  were  a  child,"  said  John, 
suddenly  losing  his  temper  in  a  very  unaccountable 
way. 

"Because  I  said  you  might  skate  with  Nellie? 
Really,  I  don't  see  why.  Mr.  Juxon  is  not  a  child, 
and  he  has  been  skating  with  her  all  the  morning." 

"That  is  different,"  retorted  John  growing  very 
red. 

"  Yes  —  Nellie  is  much  nearer  to  your  age  than  to 
Mr.  Juxon's,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard,  with  a  calm 
ness  which  made  John  desperate. 

"Really,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said  stiffly,  "I  cannot 
see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it." 

"  'The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a  young  man,  which 
the  lady  so  much  older  than  myself  has  charged  —  ' 
How  does  the  quotation  end,  Mr.  Short?" 

"'Has,  with  such  spirit  and  decency,  charged 
upon  me,  I  shall  neither  attempt  to  palliate  nor 
deny,'  "  said  John  savagely.  "Quite  so,  Mrs'.  God 
dard.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  palliate  it,  nor  will  I 
venture  to  deny  it." 

"  Then  why  in  the  world  are  you  so  angry  with 
me?"  she  asked,  suddenly  turning  her  violet  eyes 
upon  him.  "I  was  only  laughing,  you  know." 

"Only  laughing!"  repeated  John.  "It  is  more 
pleasant  to  laugh  than  to  be  laughed  at." 

"  Yes  —  would  not  you  allow  me  the  pleasure  then, 
just  for  once?" 


130  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  desire  it.  You  are  so  extremely 
merry  —  " 

"  Come,  Mr.  Short,  we  must  not  seem  to  have  been 
quarrelling  when  we  reach  the  pond.  It  would  be 
too  ridiculous." 

"  Everything  seems  to  strike  you  in  a  humorous 
light  to-day,"  answered  John,  beginning  to  be  paci 
fied  by  her  tone. 

"Do  you  know,  you  are  much  more  interesting 
when  you  are  angry,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"And  you  only  made  me  angry  in  order  to  see 
whether  I  was  interesting?" 

"  Perhaps  —  but  then,  I  could  •  not  help  it  in  the 
least." 

"I  trust  you  are  thoroughly  satisfied  upon  the 
point,  Mrs.  Goddard?  If  there  is  anything  more 
that  I  can  do  to  facilitate  your  researches  in  psy 
chology —  " 

"You  would  help  me?  Even  to  the  extent  of 
being  angry  again  ?  "  She  smiled  so  pleasantly  and 
frankly  that  John's  wrath  vanished. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  be  angry  with  you.  I  am  very 
sorry  if  I  seemed  to  be,"  he  answered.  "A  man  who 
has  the  good  fortune  to  be  thrown  into  your  society 
is  a  fool  to  waste  his  time  in  being  disagreeable.'"' 

"I  agree  with  the  conclusion,  at  all  events  —  that 
is,  it  is  much  better  to  be  agreeable.  Is  it  not?  Let 
us  be  friends." 

"Oh,  by  all  means,"  said  John. 

They  walked  on  for  some  minutes  in  silence. 
John  reflected  that  he  had  witnessed  a  phase  of  Mrs. 
Goddard's  character  of  which  he  had  been  very  far 
from  suspecting  the  existence.  He  had  not  hitherto 
imagined  her  to  be  a  woman  of  quick  temper  or  sharp 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  131 

speech.  His  idea  of  her  was  formed  chiefly  upon  her 
appearance.  Her  sad  face,  with  its  pathetic  expres 
sion,  suggested  a  melancholy  humour  delighting  in 
subdued  and  tranquil  thoughts,  inclined  naturally  to 
the  romantic  view,  or  to  what  in  the  eyes  of  youths 
of  twenty  appears  to  be  the  romantic  view  of  life. 
He  had  suddenly  found  her  answering  him  with  a 
sharpness  which,  while  it  roused  his  wits,  startled 
his  sensibilities.  But  he  was  flattered  as  well.  His 
instinct  and  his  observation  of  Mrs.  Goddard  when 
in  the  society  of  others  led  him  to  believe  that  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  or  even  with  Mr.  Juxon,  she 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  talking  as  she  talked  with 
him.  He  was  therefore  inwardly  pleased,  so  soon  as 
his  passing  annoyance  had  subsided,  to  feel  that  she 
made  a  difference  between  him  and  others. 

It  was  quite  true  that  she  made  a  distinction, 
though  she  did  so  almost  unconsciously.  It  was  per 
fectly  natural,  too.  She  was  young  in  heart,  in  spite 
of  her  thirty  years  and  her  troubles ;  she  had  an  elas 
tic  temperament;  to  a  physiognomist  her  face  would 
have  shown  a  delicate  sensitiveness  to  impressions 
rather  than  any  inborn  tendency  to  sadness.  In  spite 
of  everything  she  was  still  young,  and  for  two  years 
and  a  half  she  had  been  in  the  society  of  persons 
much  older  than  herself,  persons  she  respected  and 
regarded  as  friends,  but  persons  in  whom  her  youth 
found  no  sympathy.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that 
when  time  to  some  extent  had  healed  the  wound  she 
had  suffered  and  she  suddenly  found  herself  in  the 
society  of  a  young  and  enthusiastic  man,  something 
of  the  enforced  soberness  of  her  manner  should  un 
bend,  showing  her  character  in  a  new  light.  She 
herself  enjoyed  the  change,  hardly  knowing  wiry; 


132        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

she  enjoyed  a  little  passage  of  arms  with  John,  and 
it  amused  her  more  than  she  could  have  expected  to 
be  young  again,  to  annoy  him,  to  break  the  peace  and 
heal  it  again  in  five  minutes.  But  what  happened 
entirely  failed  to  amuse  the  squire,  who  did  not 
regard  such  diversions  as  harmless;  and  moreover 
she  was  far  from  expecting  the  effect  which  her 
treatment  of  John  Short  produced  upon  his  scholarly 
but  enthusiastic  temper. 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  133 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  squire  had  remarked  that  John  Short  seemed 
to  have  a  peculiar  temper,  and  Mrs.  Goddard  had  ob 
served  the  same  thing.  What  has  gone  before  suffi 
ciently  explains  the  change  in  John's  manner,  and  the 
difference  in  his  behaviour  was  plainly  apparent  even 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose.  The  vicar  indeed  was  wise 
enough  to  see  that  John  was  very  much  attracted  by 
Mrs.  Goddard,  but  he  was  also  wise  enough  to  say 
nothing  about  it.  His  wife,  however,  who  had  wit 
nessed  no  love-making  for  nearly  thirty  years,  except 
the  courtship  of  the  young  physician  who  had  married 
her  daughter,  attributed  John's  demeanour  to  no  such 
disturbing  cause.  He  was  overworked,  she  said ;  he 
was  therefore  irritable ;  he  had  of  course  never  taken 
that  excellent  homoeopathic  remedy,  highly  diluted 
aconite,  since  he  had  left  the  vicarage ;  the  conse 
quence  was  that  he  was  subject  to  nervous  headache 
—  she  only  hoped  he  would  not  be  taken  ill  on  the 
eve  of  the  examination  for  honours.  She  hoped,  too, 
that  he  would  prolong  his  holiday  to  the  very  last 
moment,  for  the  country  air  and  the  rest  he  enjoyed 
were  sure  to  do  him  so  much  good.  With  regard  to 
the  extension  of  John's  visit,  the  vicar  thought  differ 
ently,  although  he  held  his  peace.  There  were  many 
reasons  why  John  should  not  become  attached  to  Mrs. 
Goddard  both  for  her  sake  and  his  own,  and  if  he 
staid  long,  the  vicar  felt  quite  sure  that  he  would 


134  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

fall  in  love  with  her.  She  was  dangerously  pretty, 
she  was  much  older  than  John  —  which  in  the  case 
of  very  young  men  constitutes  an  additional  probabil 
ity —  she  evidently  took  an  innocent  pleasure  in  his 
society,  and  altogether  such  a  complication  as  was 
likely  to  ensue  was  highly  undesirable.  Therefore, 
when  Mrs.  Ambrose  pressed  John  to  stay  longer  than 
he  had  intended,  the  vicar  not  only  gave  him  no 
encouragement,  but  spoke  gravely  of  the  near  ap 
proach  of  the  contest  for  honours,  of  the  necessity  of 
concentrating  every  force  for  the  coming  struggle, 
and  expressed  at  the  same  time  the  firm  conviction 
that,  if  John  did  his  best,  he  ought  to  be  the  senior 
classic  in  the  year. 

Even  Mrs.  Goddard  urged  him  to  go.  Of  course 
he  asked  her  advice.  He  would  not  have  lost  that 
opportunity  of  making  her  speak  of  himself,  nor  of 
gauging  the  exact  extent  of  the  interest  he  hoped  she 
felt  in  him. 

It  was  two  or  three  days  after  the  long  conversa 
tion  he  had  enjoyed  with  her.  In  that  time  they  had 
met  often  and  John's  admiration  for  her,  strengthened 
by  his  own  romantic  desire  to  be  really  in  love,  had 
begun  to  assume  proportions  which  startled  Mrs.  God 
dard  and  annoyed  Mr.  Juxon.  The  latter  felt  that 
the  boy  was  in  his  way ;  whenever  he  wanted  to  see 
Mrs.  Goddard,  John  was  at  her  side,  talking  eagerly 
and  contesting  his  position  against  the  squire  with  a 
fierceness  which  in  an  older  and  wiser  man  would 
have  been  in  the  worst  possible  taste.  Even  as  it 
was,  Mr.  Juxon  looked  considerably  annoyed  as  he 
stood  by,  smoothing  his  smooth  hair  from  time  to 
time  with  his  large  white  hand  and  feeling  that  even 
at  his  age,  and  with  his  experience,  a  man  might 
sometimes  cut  a  poor  figure. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       135 

On  the  particular  occasion  when  the  relations 
between  John  and  the  squire  became  an  object  of 
comment  to  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  whole  party  were 
assembled  at  Mrs.  Goddard's  cottage.  She  had  in 
vited  everybody  to  tea,  a  meal  which  in  her  little 
household  represented  a  compromise  between  her 
appetite  and  Nellie's.  She  had  felt  that  in  the  small 
festivities  of  the  Billingsfield  Christmas  season  she 
was  called  upon  to  do  her  share  with  the  rest  and, 
being  a  simple  woman,  she  took  her  part  simply,  and 
did  not  dignify  the  entertainment  of  her  four  friends 
by  calling  it  a  dinner.  The  occasion  was  none  the 
less  hospitable,  for  she  gave  both  time  and  thought 
to  her  preparations.  Especially  she  had  considered 
the  question  of  precedence ;  it  was  doubtful,  she 
thought,  whether  the  squire  or  the  vicar  should  sit 
upon  her  right  hand.  The  squire,  as  being  lord  of 
the  manor,  represented  the  powers  temporal,  the 
vicar  on  the  other  hand  represented  the  church, 
which  on  ordinary  occasions  takes  precedence  of  the 
lay  faculty.  She  had  at  last  privately  consulted  Mr. 
Juxon,  in  whom  she  had  the  greatest  confidence, 
asking  him  frankly  which  she  should  do,  and  Mr. 
Juxon  had  unhesitatingly  yielded  the  post  of  honour 
to  the  vicar,  adding  to  enforce  his  opinion  the  very 
plausible  argument  that  if  he,  the  squire,  took  Mrs. 
Goddard  in  to  tea,  the  vicar  would  have  to  give  his 
arm  either  to  little  Nellie  or  to  his  own  wife.  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  convinced  and  the  affair  was  a  complete 
success. 

John  felt  that  he  could  not  complain  of  his  position, 
but  as  he  was  separated  from  the  object  of  his  admira 
tion  during  the  whole  meal,  he  resolved  to  indemnify 
himself  for  his  sufferings  by  monopolising  her  conver- 


136       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

sation  during  the  rest  of  the  evening.  The  squire  on 
the  other  hand,  who  had  been  obliged  to  talk  to  Mrs. 
Ambrose  during  most  of  the  time  while  they  were 
at  table,  and  who,  moreover,  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  he  had  seen  almost  enough  of  John  Short,  deter 
mined  to  give  the  young  man  a  lesson  in  the  art  of 
interesting  women  in  general  and  Mrs.  Goddard  in 
particular.  She,  indeed,  would  not  have  been  a 
woman  at  all  had  she  not  understood  the  two  men 
and  their  intentions.  After  tea  the  party  congregated 
round  the  fire  in  the  little  drawing-room,  standing 
in  a  circle,  of  which  their  hostess  formed  the  centre. 
Mr.  Juxon  and  John,  anticipating  that  Mrs.  Goddard 
must  ultimately  sit  upon  one  side  or  other  of  the 
fireplace  had  at  first  chosen  opposite  sides,  each  hop 
ing  that  she  would  take  the  chair  nearest  to  himself. 
But  Mrs.  Goddard  remained  standing  an  unreasonably 
long  time,  for  the  very  reason  that  she  did  not  choose 
to  sit  beside  either  of  them.  Seeing  this  the  squire, 
who  had  perhaps  a  greater  experience  than  his  adver 
sary  in  this  kind  of  strategic  warfare,  left  his  place 
and  put  himself  on  the  same  side  as  John.  He  argued 
that  Mrs.  Goddard  would  probably  then  choose  the 
opposite  side,  whereas  John  who  was  younger  would 
think  she  would  come  towards  the  two  where  they 
stood  ;  John  would  consequently  lose  time,  Mr.  Juxon 
would  cross  again  and  instal  himself  by  her  side  while 
his  enemy  was  hesitating. 

While  these  moves  and  counter-moves  were  pro 
ceeding,  the  conversation  was  general.  The  vicar  was 
for  the  hundredth  time  admiring  the  Andrea  del  Sarto 
over  the  chimney-piece  and  his  wife  was  explaining 
her  general  objections  to  the  representation  of  sacred 
subjects  upon  canvas,  while  Mrs.  Goddard  answered 


A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  137 

each  in  turn  and  endeavoured  to  disagree  with  neither. 
What  the  squire  had  foreseen  when  he  made  his  last 
move,  however,  actually  took  place  at  last.  Mrs. 
Goddard  established  herself  upon  the  side  opposite  the 
two  men.  Mr.  Juxon  crossed  rapidly  to  where  she 
was  seated,  and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  who  had  turned  with 
the  intention  of  speaking  to  the  squire,  found  herself 
confronted  by  John.  He  saw  that  he  had  been 
worsted  by  his  foe  and  immediately  lost  his  temper ; 
but  being  brought  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  obliged  to  control  it  as  he  might.  That  excellent 
lady  beamed  upon  him  with  a  maternal  smile  of  the 
kind  which  is  peculiarly  irritating  to  young  men.  He 
struggled  to  get  away  however,  glancing  over  Mrs. 
Ambrose's  shoulder  at  the  squire  and  longing  to  be 
"  at  him  "  as  he  would  have  expressed  it.  But  the 
squire  was  not  to  be  got  at  so  easily,  for  the  vicar's 
wife  was  of  a  fine  presence  and  covered  much  ground. 
John  involuntarily  thought  of  the  dyke  before  Troy, 
of  Hector  and  his  heroes  attempting  to  storm  it  and 
of  the  Ajaces  and  Sarpedon  defending  it  and  glaring 
down  from  above.  He  could  appreciate  Hector's 
feelings  —  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  very  like  the  dyke. 

The  squire  smiled  serenely  and  smoothed  his  hair 
as  he  talked  to  Mrs.  Goddard  and  she  herself  looked 
by  no  means  discontented,  thereby  adding,  as  it  were, 
an  insult  to  the  injury  done  to  John. 

"  I  shall  always  envy  you  the  cottage,"  the  squire 
was  saying.  "  I  have  not  a  single  room  in  the  Hall 
that  is  half  so  cheery  in  the  evening." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  my  terror  when  we  first  met," 
answered  Mrs.  Goddard,  udo  you  remember?  You 
frightened  me  by  saying  you  would  like  to  live  here. 
I  thought  you  meant  it." 


138  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"  You  must  have  thought  I  was  the  most  unman 
nerly  of  barbarians." 

"  Instead  of  being  the  best  of  landlords,"  added 
Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  I  hardly  know  whether  I  am  that,"  said  Mr.  Juxon, 
settling  himself  in  his  chair.  "But  I  believe  I  am 
by  nature  an  exceedingly  comfortable  man,  and  I 
never  fail  to  consult  the  interests  of  my  comfort." 

"And  of  mine.  Think  of  all  you  have  done  to 
improve  this  place.  I  can  never  thank  you  enough. 
I  suppose  one  always  feels  particularly  grateful  at 
Christmas  time  —  does  not  one  ?  " 

44  One  has  more  to  be  grateful  for,  it  seems  to  me 
—  in  our  climate,  too.  People  in  southern  countries 
never  really  know  what  comfort  means,  because 
nature  never  makes  them  thoroughly  uncomfortable. 
Only  a  man  who  is  freezing  can  appreciate  a  good 
fire." 

44  I  suppose  you  have  been  a  good  deal  in  such 
places,"  suggested  Mrs.  Goddard,  vaguely. 

"  Oh  yes  —  everywhere,"  answered  the  squire  with 
equal  indefmiteness.  "  By  the  bye,  talking  of  travel 
ling,  when  is  our  young  friend  going  away  ?  "  There 
was  not  a  shade  of  ill-humour  in  the  question. 

44  The  day  after  New  Year's  —  I  believe." 

44  He  has  had  a  very  pleasant  visit." 

44  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard,  44 1  hope  it  will  do 
him  a  great  deal  of  good." 

44 Why?  Was  he  ill?  Ah  —  I  remember,  they 
said  he  had  worked  too  hard.  It  is  a  great  mistake 
to  work  too  hard,  especially  when  one  is  very  young." 

44  He  is  very  young,  is  not  he  ? "  remarked  Mrs. 
Goddard  with  a  faint  smile,  remembering  the  many 
conversations  she  had  had  with  him. 


A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  139 

"Very.  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  —  well,  that 
he  was  losing  his  head  a  little  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  his  companion  innocently.  "  What 
about?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  he  has  rather  a  peculiar  tem 
per.  He  is  perpetually  getting  very  angry  with  no 
ostensible  reason  —  and  then  he  glares  at  one  like  an 
angry  cat." 

"  Take  care,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  he  might  hear 
you." 

"Do  him  good,"  said  the  squire  cheerfully. 

"  Oh,  no  !  It  would  hurt  his  feelings  dreadfully. 
How  can  you  be  so  unkind  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  very  good  boy,  you  know.  Really,  I 
believe  he  is.  Only  he  is  inclined  to  be  rather 
too  unreasonable;  I  should  think  he  might  be 
satisfied." 

"Satisfied  with  what?"  inquired  Mrs.  Goddard, 
who  did  not  wish  to  understand. 

"With  the  way  you  have  treated  him,"  returned 
the  squire  bluntly.  "You  have  been  wonderfully 
good  to  him." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  The  faint  colour  rose  to  her  cheek. 
"  I  don't  know  —  poor  fellow !  I  daresay  his  life  at 
Cambridge  is  very  dull." 

"Yes.  Entirely  devoid  of  that  species  of  amuse 
ment  which  he  has  enjoyed  so  abundantly  in  Billings- 
field.  It  is  not  every  undergraduate  who  has  a  chance 
to  talk  to  you  for  a  week  at  a  time." 

Mr.  Juxon  made  the  remark  very  calmly,  without 
seeming  to  be  in  the  least  annoyed.  He  was  much 
too  wise  a  man  to  appear  to  be  displeased  at  Mrs. 
Goddard's  treatment  of  John.  Moreover,  he  felt 
that  on  the  present  occasion,  at  least,  John  had 


140  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

been  summarily  worsted;  it  was  his  turn  to  be 
magnanimous. 

a  If  you  are  going  to  make  compliments,  I  will  go 
away,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  I  ?  I  never  made  a  compliment  in  my  life," 
replied  the  squire  complacently.  "  Do  you  think  it  is 
a  compliment  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Short  probably 
enjoys  your  conversation  much  more  than  the  study 
of  Greek  roots?" 

"  Well  —  not  exactly  —  " 

"  Besides,  in  general,"  continued  the  squire,  "  com 
pliments  are  mere  waste  of  breath.  If  a  woman  has 
any  vanity  she  knows  her  own  good  points  much 
better  than  any  man  who  attempts  to  explain  them  to 
her ;  and  if  she  has  no  vanity,  no  amount  of  explana 
tion  of  her  merits  will  make  her  see  them  in  a  proper 
light." 

"That  is  very  true,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard, 
thoughtfully.  "  It  never  struck  me  before.  I  wonder 
whether  that  is  the  reason  women  always  like  men 
who  never  make  any  compliments  at  all?" 

The  squire's  face  assumed  an  amusing  expression 
of  inquiry  and  surprise. 

"  Is  that  personal  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  —  of  course  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard  in 
some  confusion.  She  blushed  and  turning  towards 
the  fire  took  up  the  poker  and  pretended  to  stir  the 
coals.  Women  always  delight  in  knocking  a  good 
fire  to  pieces,  out  of  pure  absence  of  mind.  John 
Short  saw  the  movement  and,  escaping  suddenly  from 
the  maternal  conversation  of  Mrs.  Ambrose,  threw 
himself  upon  his  knee  on  the  hearth-rug  and  tried  to 
take  the  poker  from  his  hostess's  hand. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Goddard,  don't !  Let  me  do  it  — • 
please  !  "  he  exclaimed. 


A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PAKISH.  141 

"But  I  can  do  it  very  well  myself,"  said  she 
protesting  and  not  relaxing  her  hold  upon  the  poker. 
But  John  was  obstinate  in  his  determination  to  save 
her  trouble,  and  rudely  tried  to  get  the  instrument 
away. 

"  Please  don't  —  you  hurt  me,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard 
petulantly. 

"  Oh  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  wanted  to  help  you," 
said  John  leaving  his  hold.  "  I  did  not  really  hurt 
you  —  did  I  ?  "  he  asked,  almost  tenderly. 

"  Dreadfully,"  replied  Mrs.  Goddard,  half  angry  and 
half  amused  at  his  impatience  and  subsequent  con 
trition.  The  squire  sat  complacently  in  his  chair, 
watching  the  little  scene.  John  hated  him  more  than 
ever,  and  grew  very  red.  Mrs.  Goddar'd  saw  the  boy's 
embarrassment  and  presently  relented. 

"  I  daresay  you  will  do  it  better  than  I,"  she  said, 
handing  him  the  poker,  which  John  seized  with  alac 
rity.  "  That  big  coal  —  there,"  she  added,  pointing 
to  a  smouldering  block  in  the  corner  of  the  grate. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,"  said  John.  "  I  only 
wanted  to  help  you."  He  knelt  by  her  side  poking 
the  fire  industriously.  "I  only  wanted  to  get  a 
chance  to  talk  to  you,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice, 
barely  audible  to  Mrs.  Goddard  as  she  leaned  for 
ward. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  do  that  just  now,"  she 
said,  not  unkindly,  but  with  the  least  shade  of  severity 
in  her  tone.  "  You  will  get  dreadfully  hot  if  you  stay 
there,  so  near  the  fire." 

"  I  don't  mind  the  heat  in  the  least,"  said  John 
heroically.  Nevertheless  as  she  did  not  give  him  any 
further  encouragement  he  was  presently  obliged  to  re 
tire,  greatly  discomfited.  He  could  not  spend  the 
evening  on  his  knees  with  the  poker  in  his  hand. 


142  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"Bad  failure,"  remarked  the  squire  in  an  under 
tone  as  soon  as  John  had  rejoined  Mrs.  Ambrose,  who 
had  not  quite  finished  her  lecture  on  homoeopathy. 

Mrs.  Goddard  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked 
at  Mr.  Juxon  rather  coolly.  She  did  not  want  him 
to  laugh  at  John,  though  she  was  not  willing  to 
encourage  John  herself. 

"  You  should  not  be  unkind,"  she  said.  "  He  is 
such  a  nice  boy  —  why  should  you  wish  him  to  be 
uncomfortable  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  in  the  least.  I  could  not  help  being 
amused  a  little.  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  be  un 
kind." 

Indeed  the  squire  had  not  shown  himself  to  be  so, 
on  the  whole,  and  he  did  not  refer  to  the  matter 
again  during  the  evening.  He  kept  his  place  for 
some  time  by  Mrs.  Goddard's  side  and  then,  judging 
that  he  had  sufficiently  asserted  his  superiority,  rose 
and  talked  to  Mrs.  Ambrose.  But  John,  being  now 
in  a  thoroughly  bad  humour,  could  not  take  his 
vacant  seat  with  a  good  grace.  He  stood  aloof  and 
took  up  a  book  that  lay  upon  the  table  and  avoided 
looking  at  Mrs.  Goddard.  By  and  by,  when  the 
party  broke  up,  he  said  good-night  in  such  a  particu 
larly  cold  and  formal  tone  of  voice  that  she  stared  at 
him  in  surprise.  But  he  took  no  notice  of  her  look 
and  went  away  after  the  Ambroses,  in  that  state  of 
mind  which  boys  call  a  huff. 

But  on  the  following  day  John  repented  of  his 
behaviour.  All  day  long  he  wandered  about  the  gar 
den  of  the  vicarage,  excusing  himself  from  joining 
the  daily  skating  which  formed  the  staple  of  amuse 
ment  during  the  Christmas  week,  by  saying  that  he 
had  an  idea  for  a  copy  of  verses  and  must  needs  work 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  143 

it  out.  But  he  inwardly  hoped  that  Mrs.  Goddard 
would  come  to  the  vicarage  late  in  the  afternoon, 
without  the  inevitable  Mr.  Juxon,  and  that  he  might 
then  get  a  chance  of  talking  to  her.  He  was  not  quite 
sure  what  he  should  say.  He  would  find  words  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment;  it  would  at  all  events  be 
much  easier  than  to  meet  her  on  the  ice  at  the  Hall 
with  all  the  rest  of  them  and  to  see  Mr.  Juxon  push 
ing  her  about  in  that  detestable  chair,  with  the  un 
ruffled  air  of  superiority  which  John  so  hated  to  see 
upon  his  face.  The  vicar  suspected  more  than  ever 
that  there  was  something  wrong ;  he  had  seen  some 
of  the  by-play  on  the  previous  evening,  and  had 
noticed  John's  ill-concealed  disappointment  at  being 
unable  to  dislodge  the  sturdy  squire  from  his  seat. 
But  Mrs.  Ambrose  seemed  to  be  very  obtuse,  and  the 
vicar  would  have  been  the  last  to  have  spoken  of  his 
suspicions,  even  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom.  It  was  his 
duty  to  induce  John  to  go  back  to  his  work  at  the 
end  of  the  week ;  it  was  not  his  duty  to  put  imputa 
tions  upon  him  which  Mrs.  Ambrose  would  naturally 
exaggerate  and  which  would  drive  her  excellent  heart 
into  a  terrible  state  of  nervous  anxiety. 

But  Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  come  back  to  the  vicarage 
on  that  day,  and  John  went  to  dinner  with  a  sad  heart. 
It  did  not  seem  like  a  day  at  all  if  he  had  not  seen  her 
and  talked  with  her.  He  had  now  no  doubt  whatever 
that  he  was  seriously  in  love,  and  he  set  himself  to 
consider  his  position.  The  more  he  considered  it,  the 
more  irreconcilable  it  seemed  to  be  with  the  passion 
which  beset  him.  A  child  could  see  that  for  several 
years,  at  least,  he  would  not  be  in  a  position  to  marry. 
With  Mr.  Juxon  at  hand  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end,  the  owner  of  the  Hall,  of  the  Billingsfield  prop- 


144  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

erty  and  according  to  all  appearances  of  other  resources 
besides,  —  with  such  a  man  constantly  devoted  to  her, 
could  Mrs.  Goddard  be  expected  to  wait  for  poor 
John  three  years,  even  two  years,  from  the  time  of 
the  examination  for  the  classical  Tripos?  Nothing 
was  more  improbable,  he  was  forced  to  admit.  And 
yet,  the  idea  of  life  if  he  did  not  marry  Mrs.  Goddard 
was  dismal  beyond  all  expression ;  he  would  probably 
not  survive  it.  He  did  not  know  what  he  should  do. 
He  shrank  from  the  thought  of  declaring  his  love  to 
her  at  once.  He  remembered  with  pain  that  she  had 
a  terrible  way  of  laughing  at  him  when  he  grew  con 
fidential  or  too  complimentary,  and  he  dreaded  lest  at 
the  supreme  moment  of  his  life  he  should  appear 
ridiculous  in  her  eyes  —  he,  a  mere  undergraduate. 
If  he  came  out  at  the  head  of  the  Tripos  it  would  be 
different ;  and  yet  that  seemed  so  long  to  wait,  espe 
cially  while  Mr.  Juxon  lived  at  the  Hall  and  Mrs. 
Goddard  lived  at  the  park  gates.  Suddenly  a  thought 
struck  him  which  filled  him  with  delight ;  it  was  just 
possible  that  Mr.  Juxon  had  no  intention  of  marrying 
Mrs.  Goddard.  If  he  had  any  such  views  he  would 
probably  have  declared  them  before  now,  for  he  had 
met  her  every  day  during  more  than  half  a  year. 
John  longed  to  ask  some  one  the  question.  Perhaps 
Mr.  Ambrose,  who  might  be  supposed  to  know  every 
thing  connected  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  could  tell  him. 
He  felt  very  nervous  at  the  idea  of  speaking  to  the 
vicar  on  the  subject,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him  that 
no  one  else  could  set  his  mind  at  rest.  If  he  were 
quite  certain  that  Mr.  Juxon  had  no  intention  of 
offering  himself  to  the  charming  tenant  of  the  cottage, 
he  might  return  to  his  work  with  some  sense  of  secu 
rity  in  the  future.  Otherwise  he  saw  only  the  des- 


A  TALE  OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  145 

perate  alternative  of  throwing  himself  at  her  feet  and 
declaring  that  he  loved  her,  or  of  going  back  to  Cam 
bridge  with  the  dreadful  anticipation  of  hearing  any 
day  that  she  had  married  the  squire.  To  be  laughed 
at  would  be  bad,  but  to  feel  that  he  had  lost  her 
irrevocably,  without  a  struggle,  would  be  awful. 
No  one  but  the  vicar  could  and  would  tell  him  the 
truth  ;  it  would  be  bitter  to  ask  such  a  question,  but 
it  must  be  done.  Having  at  last  come  to  this  for 
midable  resolution,  towards  the  conclusion  of  dinner, 
his  spirits  rose  a  little.  He  took  another  glass  of 
the  vicar's  mild  ale  and  felt  that  he  could  face  his 
fate. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment  in  the  study,  Mr. 
Ambrose  ?  "  he  said  as  they  rose  from  table. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  vicar ;  and  having  con 
ducted  his  wife  to  the  drawing-room,  he  returned  to 
find  John.  There  was  a  low,  smouldering  fire  in  the 
study  grate,  and  John  had  lit  a  solitary  candle.  The 
room  looked  very  dark  and  dismal  and  John  was 
seated  in  one  of  the  black  leather  chairs,  waiting. 

"  Anything  about  those  verses  you  were  speaking 
of  to-day  ?  "  asked  the  vicar  cheerfully,  in  anticipation 
of  a  pleasant  classical  chat. 

"  No,"  said  John,  gloomily.  "  The  fact  is  —  "  he 
cleared  his  throat,  "  the  fact  is,  I  want  to  ask  you 
rather  a  delicate  question,  sir." 

The  vicar's  heavy  eyebrows  contracted ;  the  lines 
of  his  face  all  turned  downwards,  and  his  long,  clean 
s-have  d  upper  lip  closed  sharply  upon  its  fellow,  like 
a  steel  trap.  He  turned  his  grey  eyes  upon  John's 
averted  face  with  a  searching  look. 

"  Have  you  got  into  any  trouble  at  Trinity,  John  ?  " 
he  asked  severely. 


146  A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"Oh  no  —  no  indeed,"  said  John.  Nothing  was 
further  from  his  thoughts  than  his  college  at  that 
moment.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  which  no 
one  else  can  answer.  Is  —  do  you  think  that  —  that 
Mr.  Juxon  has  any  idea  of  marrying  Mrs.  Goddard?" 

The  vicar  started  in  astonishment  and  laid  both 
hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"What  —  in  the  world  —  put  that  —  into  your 
head?"  he  asked  very  slowly,  emphasising  every 
word  of  his  question.  John  was  prepared  to  see  his 
old  tutor  astonished  but  was  rather  taken  aback  at 
the  vicar's  tone. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  likely,  sir  ?  "  he  insisted. 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  the  vicar,  still  eyeing 
him  suspiciously.  "  Certainly  not.  I  have  positive 
reasons  to  prove  the  contrary.  But,  my  dear  John, 
why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  sensible,  do  you  ask 
me  such  a  question?  You  don't  seriously  think  of 
proposing  —  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not,"  said  John  doggedly, 
seeing  that  he  was  found  out. 

"You  don't  see  why  you  should  not?  Why  the 
thing  is  perfectly  absurd,  not  to  say  utterly  impossible ! 
John,  you  are  certainly  mad." 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  repeated  John.  "  I  am  a  grown 
man.  I  have  good  prospects  —  " 

"  Good  prospects !  "  ejaculated  the  vicar  in  horror. 
"  Good  prospects  !  Why,  you  are  only  an  undergradu 
ate  at  Cambridge." 

"  I  may  be  senior  classic  in  a  few  months,"  objected 
John.  "  That  is  not  such  a  bad  prospect,  it  seems  to 
me." 

"  It  means  that  you  may  get  a  fellowship,  probably 
will  —  in  the  course  of  a  few  years.  But  you  lose  it 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       147 

if  you  marry.  Besides  —  do  you  know  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  is  ten  years  older  than  you,  and  more  ?  " 

"  Impossible,"  said  John  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"  I  know  that  she  is.  She  will  be  two  and  thirty 
on  her  next  birthday,  and  you  are  not  yet  one  and 
twenty." 

"I  shall  be  next  month,"  argued  John,  who  was 
somewhat  taken  aback,  however,  by  the  alarming  news 
of  Mrs.  Goddard's  age.  "  Besides,  I  can  go  into  the 
church,  before  I  get  a  fellowship  —  " 

"  No,  you  can't,"  said  the  vicar  energetically.  "  You 
won't  be  able  to  manage  it.  If  you  do,  you  will  have 
to  put  up  with  a  poor  living." 

"  That  would  not  matter.  Mrs.  Goddard  has  some 
thing— " 

"  An  honourable  prospect !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Am 
brose,  growing  more  and  more  excited.  "  To  marry 
a  woman  ten  years  older  than  yourself  because  she 
has  a  little  money  of  her  own  !  You  !  I  would  not 
have  thought  it  of  you,  John  —  indeed  I  would  not  I  " 

Indeed  no  one  was  more  surprised  than  John  Short 
himself,  when  he  found  himself  arguing  the  possibili 
ties  of  his  marriage  with  his  old  tutor.  But  he  was 
an  obstinate  young  fellow  enough  and  was  not  in 
clined  to  give  up  the  fight  easily. 

"  Really,"  he  objected,  "  I  cannot  see  anything  so 
very  terrible  in  the  idea.  I  shall  certainly  make  my 
way  in  the  world.  You  know  that  it  is  not  for  the 
sake  of  her  money.  Many  men  have  married  women 
ten  years  older  than  themselves,  and  not  half  so  beau 
tiful  and  charming,  I  am  sure." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  vicar,  "and  if  they 
have,  why  it  has  been  very  different,  that  is  all.  Be 
sides,  you  have  not  known  Mrs,  Goddard  a  week  — 


148        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

positively  not  more  than  five  days  —  why,  it  is  mad 
ness  !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  at  the  end  of  five 
days  you  believe  you  are  seriously  attached  to  a  lady 
you  never  saw  in  your  life  before  ?  " 

"  I  saw  her  once,"  said  John.  "  That  day  when  I 
waked  Muggins  —  " 

"  Once !  Nearly  three  years  ago !  I  have  no 
patience  with  you,  John!  That  a  young  fellow  of 
your  capabilities  should  give  way  to  such  a  boyish 
fancy !  It  is  absolutely  amazing !  I  thought  you 
were  growing  to  like  her  society  very  much,  but  I 
did  not  believe  it  would  come  to  this  !  " 

"  It  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  said  John  stoutly. 

"It  is  something  to  be  afraid  of,"  answered  the 
vicar. 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  alarmed,"  retorted  John.  "  I  will 
do  nothing  rash.  You  have  set  my  mind  at  rest  in 
assuring  me  that  she  will  not  marry  Mr.  Juxon.  I 
shall  not  think  of  offering  myself  to  Mrs.  Goddard 
until  after  the  Tripos." 

"  Offering  myself  "  —  how  deliciously  important 
the  expression  sounded  to  John's  own  ears !  It  con 
veyed  such  a  delightful  sense  of  the  possibilities  of 
life  when  at  last  he  should  feel  that  he  was  in  a 
position  to  offer  himself  to  any  woman,  especially  to 
Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  ask  you  to  come  down, 
even  if  you  do  turn  out  senior  classic,"  said  the  vicar, 
still  fuming  with  excitement.  "  But  if  you  put  off 
your  rash  action  until  then,  you  will  probably  have 
changed  your  mind." 

"I  will  never  change  my  mind,"  said  John  con 
fidently.  It  was  evident,  nevertheless,  that  if  the 
romance  of  his  life  were  left  to  the  tender  mercies 


A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  149 

of  the  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose,  it  was  likely  to 
come  to  an  abrupt  termination.  When  the  two  re 
turned  to  the  society  of  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  vicar  was 
still  very  much  agitated  and  John  was  plunged  in  a 
gloomy  melancholy. 


150  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  vicar's  suspicions  were  more  than  realised 
and  he  passed  an  uncomfortable  day  after  his  inter 
view  with  John,  in  debating  what  he  ought  to  do, 
whether  he  ought  to  do  anything  at  all,  or  whether 
he  should  merely  hasten  his  old  pupil's  departure 
and  leave  matters  to  take  care  of  themselves.  He 
was  a  very  conscientious  man,  and  he  felt  that  he 
was  responsible  for  John's  conduct  towards  Mrs. 
Goddard,  seeing  that  she  had  put  herself  under  his 
protection,  and  that  John  was  almost  like  one  of 
his  family.  His  first  impulse  was  to  ask  counsel  of 
his  wife,  but  he  rejected  the  plan,  reflecting  with 
great  justice  that  she  was  very  fond  of  John  and  had 
at  first  not  been  sure  of  liking  Mrs.  Goddard ;  she 
would  be  capable  of  thinking  that  the  latter  had  "  led 
Short  on,"  as  she  would  probably  say.  The  vicar 
did  not  believe  this,  and  was  therefore  loath  that  any 
one  else  should.  He  felt  that  circumstances  had 
made  him  Mrs.  Goddard's  protector,  and  he  was  more 
over  personally  attached  to  her ;  he  would  not  there 
fore  do  or  say  anything  whereby  she  was  likely  to 
appear  to  any  one  else  in  an  unfavourable  light.  It 
was  incredible  that  she  should  have  given  John 
any  real  encouragement.  Mr.  Ambrose  wondered 
whether  he  ought  to  warn  her  of  his  pupil's  mad 
ness.  But  when  he  thought  about  that,  it  seemed 
unnecessary.  It  was  unlikely  that  John  would 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  151 

betray  himself  during  his  present  visit,  since  the 
vicar  had  solemnly  assured  him  that  there  was  no 
possibility  of  a  marriage  so  far  as  Mr.  Juxon  was 
concerned.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  very  uncomfort 
able  situation  but  there  was  evidently  nothing  to 
be  done;  Mr.  Ambrose  felt  that  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Goddard  would  be  to  precipitate  matters  in  a  way 
which  could  not  but  cause  much  humiliation  to 
John  Short  and  much  annoyance  to  herself.  He 
accordingly  held  his  peace,  but  his  upper  lip  set 
itself  stiffly  and  his  eyes  had  a  combative  expres 
sion  which  told  his  wife  that  there  was  something 
the  matter. 

After  breakfast  John  went  out,  on  pretence  of 
walking  in  the  garden,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose 
were  left  alone.  The  latter,  as  usual  after  the  morn 
ing  meal,  busied  herself  about  the  room,  searching 
out  those  secret  corners  which  she  suspected  Susan 
of  having  forgotten  to  dust.  The  vicar  stood  looking 
out  of  the  window.  The  weather  was  grey  and  it 
seemed  likely  that  there  would  be  a  thaw  which 
would  spoil  the  skating. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "that  John  is  far 
from  well." 

"  What  makes  you  say  that  ?  "  inquired  the  vicar, 
who  was  thinking  of  him  at  that  very  moment. 

"  Anybody  might  see  it.  He  has  no  appetite  —  he 
ate  nothing  at  breakfast  this  morning.  He  looks 
pale.  My  dear,  that  boy  will  certainly  break 
down." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose  still 
looking  out  of  the  window.  His  hands  were  in  his 
pockets,  thrusting  the  skirts  of  his  clerical  coat  to 
right  and  left;  he  slowly  raised  himself  upon  his 


152  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

toes  and  let  himself  down  again,  repeating  the  opera 
tion  as  though  it  helped  him  to  think. 

"  That  is  the  way  you  spoil  all  your  coats,  Au- 
gustin,"  said  his  wife  looking  at  him  from  behind. 
44  I  assure  you,  my  dear,  that  boy  is  not  well.  Poor 
fellow,  all  alone  at  college  with  nobody  to  look  after 
him  —  " 

"  We  have  all  had  to  go  through  that.  I  do  not 
think  it  hurts  him  a  bit,"  said  the  vicar,  slowly  re 
moving  his  hands  from  his  pockets  in  deference  to  his 
wife's  suggestion. 

"  Then  what  is  it,  I  would  like  to  know  ?  There 
is  certainly  something  the  matter.  Now  I  ask  you 
whether  he  looks  like  himself?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  does  look  a  little  tired." 

"  Tired !  There  is  something  on  his  mind,  Augus- 
tin.  I  am  positively  certain  there  is  something  on  his 
mind.  Why  won't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

44  My  dear  —  "  began  the  vicar,  and  then  stopped 
short.  He  was  a  very  truthful  man,  and  as  he  knew 
very  well  what  was  the  matter  with  John  he  was  em 
barrassed  to  find  an  answer.  "  My  dear,"  he  repeated, 
44 1  do  not  think  he  is  ill." 

"Then  I  am  right,"  retorted  Mrs.  Ambrose,  trium 
phantly.  44  It  is  just  as  I  thought,  there  is  something 
on  his  mind.  Don't  deny  it,  Augustin  ;  there  is  some 
thing  on  his  mind." 

Mr.  Ambrose  was  silent ;  he  glared  fiercely  at  the 
window  panes. 

44  Why  don't  you  tell  me  ?  "  insisted  his  better  half. 
44 1  am  quite  sure  you  know  all  about  it.  Augustin, 
do  you  know,  or  do  you  not?  " 

Thus  directly  questioned  the  vicar  turned  sharply 
round,  sweeping  the  window  with  his  coat  tails. 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  153 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  shortly,  "  I  do  know.  Can  you 
not  imagine  that  it  may  be  a  matter  which  John  does 
not  care  to  have  mentioned  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ambrose  grew  red  with  annoyance.  She  had 
set  her  heart  on  finding  out  what  had  disturbed  John, 
and  the  vicar  had  apparently  made  up  his  mind  that 
she  should  not  succeed.  Such  occurrences  were  very 
rare  between  that  happy  couple. 

"  I  cannot  believe  he  has  done  anything  wrong," 
said  Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  Anything  which  need  be 
concealed  from  me  —  the  interest  I  have  always 
taken  —  " 

"  He  has  not  done  anything  wrong,"  said  the  vicar 
impatiently.  "  I  do  wish  you  would  drop  the  sub 
ject— " 

"  Then  why  should  it  be  concealed  from  me  ?  " 
objected  his  wife  with  admirable  logic.  "  If  it  is  any 
thing  good  he  need  not  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel, 
I  should  think." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  things  which  are  neither  bad 
nor  good,"  argued  the  vicar,  who  felt  that  if  he  could 
draw  Mrs.  Ambrose  into  a  Socratic  discussion  he  was 
safe. 

"  That  is  a  distinct  prevarication,  Augustin,"  said 
she  severely.  u  I  am  surprised  at  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  retorted  the  vicar.  "  What  has  oc 
curred  to  John  is  not  owing  to  any  fault  of  his."  In 
his  own  mind  the  good  man  excused  himself  by  say 
ing  that  John  could  not  have  helped  falling  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Goddard.  But  his  wife  turned  quickly 
upon  him. 

"  That  does  not  prevent  what  has  occurred  to  him, 
as  you  call  it,  from  being  good,  or  more  likely  bad,  to 
judge  from  his  looks." 


154  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  driven  to  bay,  "  I 
entirely  decline  to  discuss  the  point." 

"  I  thought  you  trusted  me,  Augustin." 

"  So  I  do  —  certainly  —  and  I  always  consult  you 
about  my  own  affairs." 

"  I  think  I  have  as  much  right  to  know  about  John  as 
you  have,"  retorted  his  wife,  who  seemed  deeply  hurt. 

"  That  is  a  point  then  which  you  ought  to  settle 
with  John,"  said  the  vicar.  "I  cannot  betray  his 
confidence,  even  to  you." 

"  Oh  —  then  he  has  been  making  confidences  to 
you?" 

"  How  in  the  world  should  I  know  about  his  affairs 
unless  he  told  me  ?  " 

"  One  may  see  a  great  many  things  without  being 
told  about  them,  you  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Ambrose, 
assuming  a  prim  expression  as  she  examined  a  small 
spot  in  the  tablecloth.  The  vicar  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room.  Her  speech,  which  was  made 
quite  at  random,  startled  him.  She,  too,  might  easily 
have  observed  John's  manner  when  he  was  with 
Mrs.  Goddard ;  she  might  have  guessed  the  secret,  and 
have  put  her  own  interpretation  on  John's  sudden 
melancholy. 

"  What  may  one  see  ?  "  asked  the  vicar  quickly. 

"I  did  not  say  one  could  see  anything,"  answered 
his  wife.  "  But  from  your  manner  I  infer  that  there 
really  is  something  to  see.  Wait  a  minute  —  what 
can  it  be  ?  " 

"Nothing  —  my  dear,  nothing,"  said  the  vicar 
desperately. 

"  Oh,  Augustin,  I  know  you  so  well,"  said  the  im 
placable  Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  I  am  quite  sure  now,  that 
it  is  something  I  have  seen.  Deny  it,  my  dear." 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       155 

The  vicar  was  silent  and  bit  his  long  upper  lip  as 
he  marched  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Of  course  —  you  cannot  deny  it,"  she  continued. 
"  It  is  perfectly  clear.  The  very  first  day  he  arrived 
—  when  you  came  down  from  the  Hall,  in  the  even 
ing  —  Augustin,  I  have  got  it !  It  is  Mrs.  Goddard  — 
now  don't  tell  me  it  is  not.  I  am  quite  sure  it  is 
Mrs.  Goddard.  How  stupid  of  me  !  Is  it  not  Mrs. 
Goddard?" 

"  If  you  are  so  positive,"  said  the  vicar,  resorting  to 
a  form  of  defence  generally  learned  in  the  nursery, 
"  why  do  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"  I  insist  upon  knowing,  Augustin,  is  it,  or  is  it  not, 
Mis.  Goddard?" 

"  My  dear,  I  positively  refuse  to  answer  any  more 
questions,"  said  the  vicar  with  tardy  firmness. 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  matter,"  retorted  Mrs.  Ambrose  in 
complete  triumph,  "if  it  were  not  Mrs.  Goddard  of 
course  you  would  say  so  at  once." 

A  form  of  argument  so  unanswerable,  that  the  vicar 
hastily  left  the  room  feeling  that  he  had  basely  be 
trayed  John's  confidence,  and  muttering  something 
about  intolerable  curiosity.  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  van 
quished  her  husband,  as  she  usually  did  on  those  rare 
occasions  when  anything  approaching  to  a  dispute  arose 
between  them.  Having  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
"it"  was  Mrs.  Goddard,  the  remainder  of  the  secret 
needed  no  discovery.  It  was  plain  that  John  must  be 
in  love  with  the  tenant  of  the  cottage,  and  it  seemed 
likely  that  it  would  devolve  upon  Mrs.  Ambrose  to 
clear  up  the  matter.  She  was  very  fond  of  John  and 
her  first  impression  was  that  Mrs.  Goddard,  whom  she 
now  again  suspected  of  having  foreign  blood,  had  "  led 
him  on  "  —  an  impression  which  the  vicar  had  antici- 


156  A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH. 

pated  when  he  rashly  resolved  not  to  tell  his  wife 
John's  secret.  She  knew  very  well  that  the  vicar 
must  have  told  John  his  mind  in  regard  to  such  an 
attachment,  and  she  easily  concluded  that  he  must 
have  done  so  on  the  previous  evening  when  John 
called  him  into  the  study.  But  she  had  just  won  a 
victory  over  her  husband,  and  she  consequently  felt 
that  he  was  weak,  probably  too  weak  to  save  the  situ 
ation,  and  it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  she  ought  to 
do  something  immediately.  Unhappily  she  did  not 
see  quite  clearly  what  was  to  be  done.  She  might  go 
straight  to  Mrs.  Goddard  and  accuse  her  of  having 
engaged  John's  affections ;  but  the  more  she  thought 
of  that,  the  more  diffident  she  grew  in  regard  to  the 
result  of  such  an  interview.  Curiosity  had  led  her  to 
a  certain  point,  but  caution  prevented  her  from  going 
any  further.  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  very  cautious.  The 
habit  of  living  in  a  small  place,  feeling  that  all  her 
actions  were  watched  by  the  villagers  and  duly  com 
mented  upon  by  them,  had  made  her  even  more 
careful  than  she  was  by  nature.  It  would  be  very 
unwise  to  bring  about  a  scene  with  Mrs.  Goddard  un 
less  she  were  very  sure  of  the  result.  Mrs.  Goddard 
was  hardly  a  friend.  In  Mrs.  Ambrose's  opinion  an 
acquaintance  of  two  years  and  a  half  standing  involv 
ing  almost  daily  meetings  and  the  constant  exchange 
of  civilities  did  not  constitute  friendship.  Neverthe 
less  the  vicar's  wife  would  have  been  ashamed  to  own 
that  after  such  long  continued  intercourse  she  was 
wholly  ignorant  of  Mrs.  Goddard's  real  character ; 
especially  as  the  latter  had  requested  the  vicar  to 
tell  Mrs.  Ambrose  her  story  when  she  first  appeared 
at  Billingsfield.  Moreover,  as  her  excitement  at  the 
victory  she  had  gained  over  her  husband  began  to 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  157 

subside,  she  found  herself  reviewing  mentally  the 
events  of  the  last  few  days.  She  remembered  dis 
tinctly  that  John  had  perpetually  pursued  Mrs.  God- 
dard,  and  that  although  the  latter  seemed  to  find  him 
agreeable  enough,  she  had  never  to  Mrs.  Ambrose's 
knowledge  given  him  any  of  those  open  encourage 
ments  in  the  way  of  smiles  and  signals,  which  in  the 
good  lady's  mind  were  classified  under  the  term 
"flirting."  Mrs.  Ambrose's  ideas  of  flirtation  may 
have  been  antiquated;  thirty  years  of  Billingsfield 
in  the  society  of  the  Reverend  Augustin  had  not  con 
tributed  to  their  extension ;  but,  on  the  whole,  they 
were  just.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  flirted  with  John. 
It  is  worthy  of  notice  that  in  proportion  as  the  diffi 
culties  she  would  enter  upon  by  demanding  an  ex 
planation  from  Mrs.  Goddard  seemed  to  grow  in 
magnitude,  she  gradually  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  it  was  John's  fault.  Half  an  hour  ago,  in  the 
flush  of  triumph  she  had  indignantly  denied  that 
anything  could  be  John's  fault.  She  now  resolved 
to  behave  to  him  with  great  austerity.  Such  an 
occurrence  as  his  falling  in  love  could  not  be  passed 
over  with  indifference.  It  seemed  best  that  he  should 
leave  Billingsfield  very  soon. 

John  thought  so  too.  Existence  would  not  be 
pleasant  now  that  the  vicar  knew  his  secret,  and  he 
cursed  the  folly  and  curiosity  which  had  led  him  to 
betray  himself  in  order  to  find  out  whether  Mr.  Juxon 
thought  of  marrying  Mrs.  Goddard.  He  had  now 
resolved  to  return  to  Cambridge  at  once  and  to  work 
his  hardest  until  the  Tripos  was  over.  He  would 
then  come  back  to  Billingsfield  and,  with  his  honours 
fresh  upon  him  and  the  prospect  of  immediate  success 
before  him,  he  would  throw  himself  at  Mrs.  Goddard's 


158       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

feet.  But  of  course  he  must  have  one  farewell  inter 
view.  Oh,  those  farewell  interviews  !  Those  leave- 
takings,  wherein  often  so  much  is  taken  without 
leave ! 

Accordingly  at  luncheon  he  solemnly  announced  his 
intention  of  leaving  the  vicarage  on  the  morrow.  Mrs. 
Ambrose  received  the  news  with  an  equanimity  which 
made  John  suspicious,  for  she  had  heretofore  con 
stantly  pressed  him  to  extend  his  holiday,  expressing 
the  greatest  solicitude  for  his  health.  She  now  sat 
stony  as  a  statue  and  said  very  coldly  that  she  was 
sorry  he  had  to  go  so  soon,  but  that,  of  course,  it 
could  not  be  helped.  The  vicar  was  moved  by  his 
wife's  apparent  indifference.  John,  he  said,  might 
at  least  have  stayed  till  the  end  of  the  promised 
week;  but  at  this  suggestion  Mrs.  Ambrose  darted 
at  her  husband  a  look  so  full  of  fierce  meaning,  that 
the  vicar  relapsed  into  silence,  returning  to  the  con 
sideration  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a  salad  of  mustard 
and  cress.  John  saw  the  look  and  was  puzzled ;  he 
did  not  believe  the  vicar  capable  of  going  straight 
to  Mrs.  Ambrose  with  the  story  of  the  last  night's 
interview.  But  he  was  already  so  much  disturbed 
that  he  did  not  attempt  to  explain  to  himself  what 
was  happening. 

But  when  lunch  was  over,  and  he  realised  that  he 
had  declared  his  intention  of  leaving  Billingsfield  on 
the  next  day,  he  saw  that  if  he  meant  to  see  Mrs. 
Goddard  before  he  left  he  must  go  to  her  at  once. 
He  therefore  waited  until  he  heard  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose  talking  together  in  the  sitting-room  and 
then  slipped  quietly  out  by  the  garden  to  the  road. 

He  had  no  idea  what  he  should  say  when  he  met 
Mrs.  Goddard.  He  meant,  of  course,  to  let  her  under- 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  159 

stand,  or  at  least  suppose,  that  he  was  leaving  sud 
denly  on  her  account,  but  he  did  not  know  in  the 
least  how  to  accomplish  it.  He  trusted  that  the 
words  necessary  to  him  would  come  into  his  head 
spontaneously.  His  heart  beat  fast  and  he  was  con 
scious  that  he  blushed  as  he  rang  the  bell  of  the  cot 
tage.  Almost  before  he  knew  where  he  was,  he 
found  himself  ushered  into  the  little  drawing-room 
and  in  the  presence  of  the  woman  he  now  felt  sure 
that  he  loved.  But  to  his  great  annoyance  she  was 
not  alone ;  Nellie  was  with  her.  Mrs.  Goddard  sat 
near  the  fire,  reading  a  review ;  Nellie  was  curled  up 
in  a  corner  of  the  deep  sofa  with  a  book,  her  thick 
brown  curls  falling  all  over  her  face  and  hands  as 
she  read.  Mrs.  Goddard  extended  her  hand,  without 
rising. 

" How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Short?  "  she  said.  The  young 
man  stood  hat  in  hand  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
feeling  very  nervous.  It  was  strange  that  he  should 
experience  any  embarrassment  now,  considering  how 
many  hours  he  had  spent  in  her  company  during  the 
last  few  days.  He  blushed  and  stammered. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  I,  in  fact  —  I  have  come  to  say 
good-bye,"  he  blurted  out. 

"  So  soon  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Goddard  calmly.  "  Pray  sit 
down." 

"Are  you  really  going  away,  Mr.  Short?"  asked 
Nellie.  "  We  are  so  sorry  to  lose  you."  The  child 
had  caught  the  phrase  from  a  book  she  had  been 
reading,  and  thought  it  very  appropriate.  Her 
mother  smiled. 

"Yes  —  as  Nellie  says  —  we  are  soriy  to  lose  you," 
she  said.  "I  thought  you  were  to  stay  until 
Monday  ?  " 


160  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"  So  I  was  —  but —  very  urgent  business  —  not  ex 
actly  business  of  course,  but  work  —  calls  me  away 
sooner."  Having  delivered  himself  of  this  master 
piece  of  explanation  John  looked  nervously  at  Nellie 
and  then  at  his  hat  and  then,  with  an  imploring 
glance,  at  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"  But  we  shall  hear  of  you,  Mr.  Short  —  after  the 
examinations,  shall  we  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  John  eagerly.  "  I  will  come  down 
as  soon  as  the  lists  are  out." 

"  You  have  my  best  wishes,  you  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Goddard  kindly.  "  I  feel  quite  sure  that  you  will 
really  be  senior  classic." 

"  Mamma  is  always  saying  that  —  it  is  quite  true," 
explained  Nellie. 

John  blushed  again  and  looked  gratefully  at  Mrs. 
Goddard.  He  wished  Nellie  would  go  away,  but  there 
was  not  the  least  chance  of  that. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  I  often  say  it.  We  all 
take  a  great  interest  in  your  success  here." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  murmured  John.  "  Of  course 
I  shall  come  down  at  once  and  tell  you  all  about  it, 
if  I  succeed.  I  do  not  really  expect  to  be  first,  of 
course.  I  shall  be  satisfied  if  I  get  a  place  in  the 
first  ten.  But  I  mean  to  do  my  best." 

"  No  one  can  do  more,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  leaning 
back  in  her  chair  and  looking  into  the  fire.  Her  face 
was  quiet,  but  not  sad  as  it  sometimes  was.  There 
was  a  long  silence  which  John  did  not  know  how  to 
break.  Nellie  sat  upon  a  carved  chair  by  the  side  of 
the  fireplace  dangling  her  legs  and  looking  at  her  toes, 
turning  them  alternately  in  and  out.  She  wished  John 
would  go  for  she  wanted  to  get  back  to  her  book,  but 
had  been  told  it  was  not  good  manners  to  read  when 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  161 

there  were  visitors.  John  looked  at  Mrs.  Goddard's 
face  and  was  about  to  speak,  and  then  changed  his 
mind  and  grew  red  and  said  nothing.  Had  she  noticed 
his  shyness  she  would  have  made  an  effort  at  conver 
sation,  but  she  was  absent-minded  to-day,  and  was 
thinking  of  something  else.  Suddenly  she  started  and 
laughed  a  little. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "  What  were  you 
saying,  Mr.  Short  ?  "  Had  John  been  saying  anything 
he  would  have  repeated  it,  but  being  thus  interrogated 
he  grew  doubly  embarrassed. 

"I  —  I  have  not  much  to  say  —  except  good-bye,'' 
he  answered. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  You  are 
not  going  this  afternoon?  It  is  always  so  unpleasant 
to  say  good-bye,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"Dreadfully,"  answered  John.  "I  would  rather 
say  anything  else  in  the  world.  No ;  I  am  going 
early  to-morrow  morning.  There  is  no  help  for  it," 
he  added  desperately.  "  I  must  go,  you  know." 

"  The  next  time  you  come,  you  will  be  able  to  stay 
much  longer,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  in  an  encouraging 
way.  "  You  will  have  no  more  terms,  then." 

"No  indeed  —  nothing  but  to  take  my  degree." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  then  ?  You  said  the  other 
day  that  you  thought  seriously  of  going  into  the 
church." 

"  Oh  mamma,"  interrupted  Nellie  suddenly  looking 
up,  "  fancy  Mr.  Short  in  a  black  gown,  preaching  like 
Mr.  Ambrose!  How  perfectly  ridiculous  he  would 
look  ! " 

"  Nellie  —  Nellie !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  do 
not  talk  nonsense.  It  is  very  rude  to  say  Mr.  Short 
would  look  ridiculous." 


162  A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  mamma,"  returned 
Nellie,  blushing  scarlet  and  pouting  her  lips,  "  only  it 
would  be  very  funny,  wouldn't  it?" 

"  I  daresay  it  would,"  said  John,  relieved  by  the 
interruption.  "I  wish  you  would  advise  me  what 
to  do,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  added  in  a  confidential 
tone. 

"  I  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  and  then  laughed.  "  How 
should  I  be  able  to  advise  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  you  could,"  said  John,  insisting.  "  You 
have  such  wonderfully  good  judgment  —  " 

"  Have  I  ?  I  did  not  know  it.  But,  tell  me,  if  you 
come  out  very  high  are  you  not  sure  of  getting  a  fel 
lowship?" 

"  It  is  likely,"  answered  John  indifferently.  "  But 
I  should  have  to  give  it  up  if  I  married  —  " 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Short,"  cried  Mrs.  Goddard,  with  a 
laugh  that  cut  him  to  the  quick,  "  you  do  not  think 
of  marrying  for  many  years  to  come  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  blushing  violently, 
"  why  should  not  I  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  a  man  should  never  marry  until 
he  is  at  least  five  and  twenty  years  old,"  said  Mrs. 
Goddard,  calmly. 

"  Well  —  I  may  be  as  old  as  that  before  I  get  the 
fellowship." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay.  But  even  then,  why  should  you 
want  to  resign  a  handsome  independence  as  soon  as 
you  have  got  it?  Is  there  anything  else  so  good 
within  your  reach  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  church,  of  course,"  said  John.  "  But 
Miss  Nellie  seems  to  think  that  ridiculous  —  " 

"  Never  mind  Nellie,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"  Seriously,  Mr.  Short,  do  you  approve  of  entering 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.        163 

the  church  merely  as  a  profession,  a  means  of  earning 
money  ?  " 

"  Well  —  no  —  I  did  not  put  it  in  that  way.  But 
many  people  do." 

"That  does  not  prove  that  it  is  either  wise  or 
decent,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  If  you  felt  impelled 
to  take  orders  from  other  motives,  it  would  be  differ 
ent.  As  I  understand  you,  you  are  choosing  a  pro 
fession  for  the  sake  of  becoming  independent." 

"  Certainly,"  said  John. 

"  Well,  then,  there  is  nothing  better  for  you  to  do 
than  to  get  a  fellowship  and  hold  it  as  long  as  you 
can,  and  during  that  time  you  can  make  up  your 
mind."  She  spoke  with  conviction,  and  the  plan 
seemed  good.  "  But  I  cannot  imagine,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  why  you  should  ask  my  advice." 

"And  not  to  marry?"  inquired  John  nervously. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that  when  you 
are  thirty  —  even  five  and  thirty  is  not  too  late." 

"  Dear  me !  "  exclaimed  John,  "  I  think  that  is 
much  too  old ! " 

"Do  you  call  me  old?"  asked  Mrs.  Goddard 
serenely.  "  I  was  thirty-one  on  my  last  birthday." 

For  the  twentieth  time,  John  felt  himself  growing 
uncomfortably  hot.  Not  only  had  he  said  an  uncon 
scionably  stupid  thing,  but  Mrs.  Goddard,  after  ad 
vising  him  not  to  marry  for  ten  years,  had  almost 
hinted  that  she  might  meanwhile  be  married  herself. 
What  else  could  she  mean  by  the  remark?  But 
John  was  hardly  a  responsible  being  on  that  day. 
His  views  of  life  and  his  understanding  were  equally 
disturbed. 

"No  indeed,"  he  protested  on  hearing  her  confession 
of  age.  "No  indeed  —  why,  you  are  the  youngest 


164       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

person  I  ever  saw,  of  course.  But  with  men  —  it  is 
quite  different." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  always  thought  women  were  supposed 
to  grow  old  faster  than  men.  That  is  the  reason  why 
women  always  marry  men  so  much  older  than  them 
selves." 

"  Oh  —  in  that  case  —  I  have  nothing  more  to  say," 
replied  John  in  very  indistinct  tones.  The  perspira 
tion  was  standing  upon  his  forehead ;  the  room  swam 
with  him  and  he  felt  a  terrible,  prickly  sensation  all 
over  his  body. 

"Mamma,  shan't  I  open  the  door?  Mr.  Short  is 
so  very  hot,"  said  Nellie  looking  at  him  in  some 
astonishment.  At  that  moment  John  felt  as  though 
he  could  have  eaten  little  Nellie,  long  legs,  ringlets 
and  all,  with  infinite  satisfaction.  He  rose  suddenly 
to  his  feet. 

"  The  fact  is  —  it  is  late  —  I  must  really  be  saying 
good-bye,"  he  stammered. 

uMust  you?"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  suspecting  that 
something  was  the  matter.  "  Well,  I  am  very  sorry 
to  say  good-bye.  But  you  will  be  coming  back  soon, 
will  you  not  ?  " 

"Yes  —  I  don't  know  —  perhaps  I  shall  not  come 
back  at  all.  Good-bye  —  Mrs.  Goddard  —  good-bye, 
Miss  Nellie." 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Short,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  look 
ing  at  him  with  some  anxiety.  "  You  are  not  ill  ? 
What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  no,  nothing,"  answered  John  with  an 
unnatural  laugh.  "  No  thank  you  —  good-bye." 

He  managed  to  get  out  of  the  door  and  rushed 
down  to  the  road.  The  cold  air  steadied  his  nerves. 
He  felt  better.  With  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling, 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  165 

he  began  to  utter  inward  imprecations  against  his 
folly,  against  the  house  he  had  just  left,  against  every 
body  and  everything  in  general,  not  forgetting  poor 
little  Nellie. 

"If  ever  I  cross  that  threshold  again  —  "  he  mut 
tered  with  tragic  emphasis.  His  face  was  still  red, 
and  he  swung  his  stick  ferociously  as  he  strode 
towards  the  vicarage.  Several  little  boys  in  ragged 
smock-frocks  saw  him  and  thought  he  had  had  some 
beer,  even  as  their  own  fathers,  and  made  vulgar 
gestures  when  his  back  was  turned. 

So  poor  John  packed  his  portmanteau  and  left  the 
vicarage  early  on  the  following  morning.  He  sent  an 
excuse  to  Mr.  Juxon  explaining  that  the  urgency  of 
his  work  called  him  back  sooner  than  he  had  expected, 
and  when  the  train  moved  fairly  off  towards  Cam 
bridge  he  felt  that  in  being  spared  the  ordeal  of  shak 
ing  hands  with  his  rival  he  had  at  least  escaped  some 
of  the  bitterness  of  his  fate  ;  as  he  rolled  along  he 
thought  very  sadly  of  all  that  had  happened  in  that 
short  time  which  was  to  have  been  so  gay  and  which 
had  come  to  such  a  miserable  end. 

Reflecting  calmly  upon  his  last  interview  with  Mrs. 
Goddard,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  memory 
failed  him.  He  could  not  recall  anything  which  could 
satisfactorily  account  for  the  terrible  disappointment 
and  distress  he  had  felt.  She  had  only  said  that  she 
was  thirty-one  years  old,  precisely  as  the  vicar  had 
stated  on  the  previous  evening,  and  she  had  advised 
him  not  to  marry  for  some  years  to  come.  But  she 
had  laughed,  and  his  feelings  had  been  deeply 
wounded — he  could  not  tell  precisely  at  what  point 
in  the  conversation,  but  he  was  quite  certain  that  slu 
had  laughed,  and  oh !  that  terrible  Nellie !  It  was  very 


166  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

bitter,  and  John  felt  that  the  best  part  of  his  life  was 
lived  out.  He  went  back  to  his  books  with  a  dark  and 
melancholy  tenacity  of  purpose,  flavoured  by  a  hope 
that  he  might  come  to  some  sudden  and  awful  end 
in  the  course  of  the  next  fortnight,  thereby  causing 
untold  grief  and  consternation  to  the  hard-hearted 
woman  he  had  loved.  But  before  the  fortnight  had 
expired  he  found  to  his  surprise  that  he  was  intensely 
interested  in  his  work,  and  once  or  twice  he  caught 
himself  wondering  how  Mrs.  Goddard  would  look 
when  he  went  back  to  Billingsfield  and  told  her  he 
had  come  out  at  the  head  of  the  classical  Tripos  — 
though,  of  course,  he  had  no  intention  of  going  there, 
nor  of  ever  seeing  her  again. 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PAKISH.  167 


CHAPTER  XL 

MR.  JUXON  was  relieved  to  hear  that  John  Short 
had  suddenly  gone  back  to  Cambridge.  He  had 
indeed  meant  to  like  him  from  the  first  and  had 
behaved  towards  him  with  kindness  and  hospitality; 
but  while  ready  to  admire  his  good  qualities  and  to 
take  a  proper  amount  of  interest  in  his  approaching 
contest  for  honours,  he  had  found  him  a  troublesome 
person  to  deal  with  and,  in  his  own  words,  a  nuisance. 
Matters  had  come  to  a  climax  after  the  tea  at  the 
cottage,  when  the  squire  had  so  completely  vanquished 
him,  but  since  that  evening  the  two  had  not  met. 

The  opposition  which  John  brought  to  bear  against 
Mr.  Juxon  was  not,  however,  without  its  effect.  The 
squire  was  in  that  state  of  mind  in  which  a  little 
additional  pressure  sufficed  to  sway  his  resolutions. 
It  has  been  seen  that  he  had  for  some  time  regarded 
Mrs.  Goddard's  society  as  an  indispensable  element 
in  his  daily  life ;  he  had  been  so  much  astonished  at 
discovering  this  that  he  had  absented  himself  for 
several  days  and  had  finally  returned  ready  to  submit 
to  his  fate,  in  so  far  as  his  fate  required  that  he 
should  see  Mrs.  Goddard  every  day.  Shortly  after 
wards  John  had  appeared  and  by  his  persistent 
attempts  to  monopolise  Mrs.  Goddard's  conversation 
had  again  caused  an  interruption  in  the  squire's  hab 
its,  which  the  latter  had  resented  with  characteristic 
firmness.  The  very  fact  of  having  resisted  John  had 


168  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

strengthened  and  given  a  new  tone  to  Mr.  Juxon's 
feelings  towards  his  tenant.  He  began  to  watch  the 
hands  of  the  clock  with  more  impatience  than  for 
merly  when,  after  breakfast,  he  sat  reading  the  papers 
before  the  library  fire,  waiting  for  the  hour  when  he 
was  accustomed  to  go  down  to  the  cottage.  His 
interest  in  the  papers  decreased  as  his  interest  in  the 
time  of  day  grew  stronger,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  found  to  his  great  surprise  that  after  read 
ing  the  news  of  the  day  with  the  greatest  care,  he 
was  often  quite  unable  to  remember  a  word  of  what 
he  had  read.  Then,  at  first,  he  would  be  angry  with 
himself  and  would  impose  upon  himself  the  task  of 
reading  the  paper  again  before  going  to  the  cottage. 
But  very  soon  he  found  that  he  had  to  read  it  twice 
almost  every  day,  and  this  seemed  such  an  unreason 
able  waste  of  time  that  he  gave  it  up,  and  fell  into 
very  unsystematic  habits. 

For  some  days,  as  though  by  mutual  consent, 
neither  Mrs.  Goddard  nor  the  squire  spoke  of  John 
Short.  The  squire  was  glad  he  was  gone  and  hoped 
that  he  would  not  come  back,  but  was  too  kind- 
hearted  to  say  so ;  Mrs.  Goddard  instinctively  under 
stood  Mr.  Juxon's  state  of  mind  and  did  not  disturb 
his  equanimity  by  broaching  an  unpleasant  subject. 
Several  days  passed  by  after  John  had  gone  and  he 
would  certainly  not  have  been  nattered  had  he  known 
that  during  that  time  two,  out  of  the  four  persons 
he  had  met  so  often  in  his  short  holiday,  had  never 
so  much  as  mentioned  him. 

One  afternoon  in  January  the  squire  found  himself 
alone  with  Mrs.  Goddard.  It  was  a  great  exception, 
and  she  herself  doubted  whether  she  were  wise  to 
receive  him  when  she  had  not  Nellie  with  her.  Nellie 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  169 

had  gone  to  the  vicarage  to  help  Mrs.  Ambrose  with 
some  work  she  had  in  hand  for  her  poor  people,  but 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  a  slight  headache  and  had  stayed 
at  home  in  consequence.  The  weather  was  very  bad  ; 
heavy  clouds  were  driving  overhead  and  the  north-east 
wind  howled  and  screamed  through  the  leafless  oaks 
of  the  park,  driving  a  fine  sleet  against  the  cottage 
windows  and  making  the  dead  creepers  rattle  against 
the  wall.  It  was  a  bitter  January  day,  and  Mrs. 
Goddard  felt  how  pleasant  a  thing  it  was  to  stay  at 
home  with  a  book  beside  her  blazing  fire.  She  was 
all  alone,  and  Nellie  would  not  be  back  before  four 
o'clock.  Suddenly  a  well-known  step  echoed  upon 
the  slate  flags  without  and  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
bell.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  hardly  time  to  think  what 
she  should  do,  as  she  laid  her  book  upon  her  knee  and 
looked  nervously  over  her  shoulder  towards  the  door. 
It  was  awkward,  she  thought,  but  it  could  not  be 
helped.  In  such  weather  it  seemed  absurd  to  send 
the  squire  away  because  her  little  girl  was  not  with 
her.  He  had  come  all  the  way  down  from  the  Hall 
to  spend  this  dreary  afternoon  at  the  cottage  —  she 
could  not  send  him  away.  There  were  sounds  in  the 
passage  as  of  some  one  depositing  a  waterproof  coat 
and  an  umbrella,  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Juxon 
appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  banishing  her 
scruples  as  soon  as  she  saw  him.  "  I  am  all  alone," 
she  added  rather  apologetically.  The  squire,  who 
was  a  simple  man  in  many  ways,  understood  the  re 
mark  and  felt  slightly  embarrassed. 

"Is  Miss  Nellie  out?"  he  asked,  coming  forward 
and  taking  Mrs.  Goddard's  hand.  He  had  not  yet 
reached  the  point  of  calling  the  child  plain  "Nellie  ; " 
he  would  have  thought  it  an  undue  familiarity. 


170  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"  She  is  gone  to  the  vicarage,"  answered  Mrs.  God- 
dard.  "What  a  dreadful  day  !  You  must  be  nearly 
frozen.  Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  ?  " 

"  No  thanks  —  no,  you  are  very  kind.  I  have  had 
a  good  walk ;  I  am  not  cold — never  am.  As  you  say, 
in  such  weather  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
come  in.  This  is  a  capital  day  to  test  that  India-rubber 
tubing  we  have  put  round  your  windows.  Excuse  me 
—  I  will  just  look  and  see  if  the  air  comes  through." 

Mr.  Juxon  carefully  examined  the  windows  of  the 
sitting-room  and  then  returned  to  his  seat. 

"  It  is  quite  air-tight,  I  think,"  he  said  with  some 
satisfaction,  as  he  smoothed  his  hair  with  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  quite,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  It  was  so  very 
good  of  you." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  returned  the  squire  cheerily. 
"  A  landlord's  chief  pre-occupation  ought  to  be  the 
comfort  of  his  tenants  and  his  next  thought  should 
be  to  keep  his  houses  in  repair.  I  never  owned  any 
houses  before,  so  I  have  determined  to  start  with  good 
principles." 

"  I  am  sure  you  succeed.     You  walked  down  ?  " 

"Always  walk,  in  any  weather.  It  is  much  less 
trouble  and  much  cheaper.  Besides,  I  like  it." 

"  The  best  of  all  reasons.  Then  you  will  not  have 
any  tea?  I  almost  wish  you  would,  because  I  want 
some  myself." 

"  Oh  of  course  —  in  that  case  I  shall  be  delighted. 
Shall  I  ring?" 

He  rang  and  Martha  brought  the  tea.  Some  time 
was  consumed  in  the  preparations  which  Mr.  Juxon 
watched  with  interest  as  though  he  had  never  seen  tea 
made  before.  Everything  that  Mrs.  Goddard  did  in 
terested  him. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       171 

"  I  do  not  know  why  it  is,"  she  said  at  last,  "  but 
weather  like  this  is  delightful  when  one  is  safe  at 
home.  I  suppose  it  is  the  contrast  —  " 

"  Yes  indeed.  It  is  like  the  watch  below  in  dirty 
weather." 

"  Excuse  me  —  I  don't  quite  understand  —  " 

"At  sea,"  explained  the  squire.  "There  is  no 
luxury  like  being  below  when  the  decks  are  wet  and 
there  is  heavy  weather  about." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  Have 
you  been  at  sea  much,  Mr.  Juxon  ?  " 

"Thirty  years,"  returned  the  squire  laconically. 
Mrs.  Goddard  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  been  a  sailor  all 
your  life  ?  " 

"Does  that  surprise  you?  I  have  been  a  sailor 
since  I  was  twelve  years  old.  But  I  got  very  tired 
of  it.  It  is  a  hard  life." 

"  Were  you  in  the  navy,  Mr.  Juxon  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Goddard  eagerly,  feeling  that  she  was  at  last  upon  the 
track  of  some  information  in  regard  to  his  past  life. 

"  Yes  —  I  was  in  the  navy,"  answered  the  squire, 
slowly.  "  And  then  I  was  at  college,  and  then  in  the 
navy  again.  At  last  I  entered  the  merchant  service 
and  commanded  my  own  ships  for  nearly  twenty 
years." 

"  How  very  extraordinary !  Why  then,  you  must 
have  been  everywhere." 

"Very  nearly.  But  I  would  much  rather  be  in 
Billingsfield." 

"You  never  told  me,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  almost 
reproachfully.  "  What  a  change  it  must  have  been 
for  you,  from  the  sea  to  the  life  of  a  country  gentle 
man  !  " 


172       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  It  is  what  I  always  wanted." 

"  But  you  do  not  seem  at  all  like  the  sea  captains 
one  hears  about  —  " 

"Well,  perhaps  not,"  replied  the  squire  thought 
fully.  "  There  are  a  great  many  different  classes  of 
sea  captains.  I  always  had  a  taste  for  books.  A 
man  can  read  a  great  deal  on  a  long  voyage.  I  have 
sometimes  been  at  sea  for  more  than  two  years  at  a 
time.  Besides,  I  had  a  fairly  good  education  and  — 
well,  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  a  gentleman  to 
begin  with  and  was  more  than  ten  years  in  the  Royal 
Navy.  All  that  makes  a  great  difference.  Have  you 
ever  made  a  long  voyage,  Mrs.  Goddard?" 

"  I  have  crossed  the  channel,'*  said  she.  "  But  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  something  more  about  your 
life."" 

"  Oh  no  —  it  is  very  dull,  all  that.  You  always 
make  me  talk  about  myself,"  said  the  squire  in  a 
tone  of  protestation. 

"It  is  very  interesting." 

"But  —  could  we  not  vary  the  conversation  by 
talking  about  you  a  little  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Juxon. 

"Oh  no!  Please  — "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Goddard 
rather  nervously.  She  grew  pale  and  busied  herself 
again  with  the  tea.  "  Do  tell  me  more  about  your 
voyages.  I  suppose  that  was  the  way  you  collected 
so  many  beautiful  things,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  the  squire,  looking 
at  her  curiously.  "  In  fact  of  course  it  was.  I  was 
a  great  deal  in  China  and  South  America  and  India, 
and  in  all  sorts  of  places  where  one  picks  up  things." 

"And  in  Turkey,  too,  where  you  got  Stamboul?" 

"  Yes.  He  was  so  wet  that  I  left  him  outside  to 
day.  Did  not  want  to  spoil  your  carpet." 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  ,     173 

The  squire  had  a  way  of  turning  the  subject  when 
he  seemed  upon  the  point  of  talking  about  himself 
which  was  very  annoying  to  Mrs.  Goddard.  But  she 
had  not  entirely  recovered  her  equanimity  and  for  the 
moment  had  lost  control  of  the  squire.  Besides  she 
had  a  headache  that  day. 

"  Stamboul  does  not  get  the  benefit  of  the  contrast 
we  were  talking  about  at  first,"  she  remarked,  in  order 
to  say  something. 

"  I  could  not  possibly  bring  him  in,'%  returned  the 
squire  looking  at  her  again.  "  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  God 
dard  —  I  don't  mean  to  be  inquisitive  you  know,  but 
—  I  always  want  to  be  of  any  use." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  I  mean,  to  be  frank,  I  am  afraid  that  something 
is  giving  you  trouble.  I  have  noticed  it  for  some 
time.  You  know,  if  I  can  be  of  any  use,  if  I  can 
help  you  in  any  way  —  you  have  only  to  say  the 
word." 

Again  she  looked  at  him.  She  did  not  know  why 
it  was  so,  but  the  genuinely  friendly  tone  in  which 
he  made  the  offer  touched  her.  She  was  surprised, 
however;  she  could  not  understand  why  he  should 
think  she  was  in  trouble,  and  indeed  she  was  in  no 
greater  distress  than  she  had  suffered  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  last  three  years. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Juxon.  But  there  is 
nothing  the  matter  —  I  have  a  headache." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  squire,  "  I  beg  your  pardon."  He 
looked  away  and  seemed  embarrassed. 

"You  have  done  too  much  already,"  said  Mrs. 
Goddard,  fearing  that  she  had  not  sufficiently  ac 
knowledged  his  offer  of  assistance. 

"  I  cannot  do  too  much.     That  is  impossible,"  he 


174       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

said  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "I  have  very  few 
friends,  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  I  like  to  think  that  you 
are  one  of  the  best  of  them." 

"I  am  sure  —  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Mr. 
Juxon,"  she  answered,  somewhat  startled  by  the 
directness  of  his  speech.  "I  am  sure  you  have 
always  been  most  kind,  and  I  hope  you  do  not  think 
me  ungrateful." 

"  I  ?  You  ?  No  —  dear  me,  please  never  mention 
it !  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Goddard  — "  he  stopped  and 
smoothed  his  hair.  "  What  particularly  disagreeable 
weather,"  he  remarked  irrelevantly,  looking  out  of 
the  window  at  the  driving  sleet. 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  down  and  slowly  stirred  her 
tea.  She  was  pale  and  her  hand  trembled  a  little, 
but  no  one  could  have  guessed  that  she  was  suffering 
any  strong  emotion.  Mr.  Juxon  looked  towards  the 
window,  and  the  grey  light  of  the  winter's  afternoon 
fell  coldly  upon  his  square  sunburned  face  and  care 
fully  trimmed  beard.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  still  looking  away  from  his  companion,  he 
continued  in  a  less  hesitating  tone. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  of 
late," he  said,  "and  it  has  struck  me  that  your  friend 
ship  has  grown  to  be  the  most  important  thing  in  my 
life."  He  paused  again  and  turned  his  hat  round 
upon  his  knee.  Still  Mrs.  Goddard  said  nothing,  and 
as  he  did  not  look  at  her  he  did  not  perceive  that  she 
was  unnaturally  agitated. 

"  I  have  told  you  what  my  life  has  been,"  he  con 
tinued  presently.  "  I  have  been  a  sailor.  I  made  a 
little  money.  I  finally  inherited  my  uncle's  estate 
here.  I  will  tell  you  anything  else  you  would  like  to 
ask  —  I  don't  think  I  ever  did  anything  to  conceal.  I 


A  TALE   OF    A  LONELY  PARISH.  175 

am  forty-two  years  old.  I  have  about  five  thousand  a 
year  and  I  am  naturally  economical.  I  would  like  to 
make  you  a  proposal  —  a  very  respectful  proposal, 
Mrs.  Goddard  — " 

Mrs.  Goddard  uttered  a  faint  exclamation  of  sur 
prise  and  fell  back  in  her  chair,  staring  with  wide 
eyes  at  the  squire,  her  cheeks  very  pale  and  her  lips 
white.  He  was  too  much  absorbed  in  what  he  was 
saying  to  notice  the  short  smothered  ejaculation,  and 
he  was  too  much  embarrassed  to  look  at  her. 

"Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said,  his  voice  trembling 
slightly,  "  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

He  was  not  prepared  for  the  result  of  his  speech. 
He  had  pondered  it  for  some  time  and  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  best  to  say  as  little  as 
possible  and  to  say  it  plainly.  It  was  an  honourable 
proposal  of  marriage  from  a  man  in  middle  life  to  a 
lady  he  had  known  and  respected  for  many  months ; 
there  was  very  little  romance  about  it ;  he  did  not 
intend  that  there  should  be  any.  As  soon  as  he  had 
spoken  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  to  her  for  his 
answer.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  clasped  her  small  white 
hands  over  her  face  and  had  turned  her  head  away 
from  him  against  the  cushion  of  the  high  backed 
chair.  The  squire  felt  very  uncomfortable  in  the 
dead  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sleet  driving  against 
the  window  panes  with  a  hissing,  rattling  sound,  and 
by  the  singing  of  the  tea-kettle.  For  some  seconds, 
which  to  Juxon  seemed  like  an  eternity,  Mrs.  God 
dard  did  not  move.  At  last  she  suddenly  dropped 
her  hands  and  looked  into  the  squire's  eyes.  He 
was  startled  by  the  ashen  hue  of  her  face. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  said,  shortly,  in  broken  tones. 
But  the  squire  was  prepared  for  some  difficulties. 


176       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  I  do  not  see  the  impossibility,"  he  said  quite 
calmly.  "  Of  course,  I  would  not  press  you  for  an 
answer,  my  dear  Mrs.  Goddard.  I  am  afraid  I  have 
been  very  abrupt,  but  I  will  go  away,  I  will  leave  you 
to  consider  —  " 

44  Oh  no,  no  !  "  cried  the  poor  lady  in  great  distress. 
44  It  is  quite  impossible  —  I  assure  you  it  is  quite, 
quite  impossible ! " 

44 1  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  who  saw  that  she 
was  deeply  moved,  but  was  loath  to  abandon  the  field 
without  a  further  struggle.  4t  I  am  not  a  very  young 
man,  it  is  true  —  but  I  am  not  a  very  old  one  either. 
You,  my  dear  Mrs.  Goddard,  have  been  a  widow  for 
some  years  —  " 

44 1  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  wild  hysterical 
laugh.  44 1 !  Oh  God  of  mercy  !  I  wish  I  were." 
Again  she  buried  her  face  in  the  cushion.  Her 
bosom  heaved  violently. 

The  squire  started  as  though  he  had  been  struck, 
and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  brown  face  so  that  the 
great  veins  on  his  temples  stood  out  like  cords. 

44  Did  I  —  did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  —  your 
husband  is  living  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  strong,  loud  voice, 
ringing  with  emotion. 

Mrs.  Goddard  moved  a  little  and  seemed  to  make  a 
great  effort  to  speak. 

44  Yes,"  she  said  very  faintly.  The  squire  rose  to 
his  feet  and  paced  the  room  in  terrible  agitation. 

44 But  where?  "  he  asked,  stopping  suddenly  in  his 
walk.  44  Mrs.  Goddard,  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  ask 
where  he  is  —  why  you  have  never  spoken  of  him  ?  " 

By  a  supreme  effort  the  unfortunate  lady  raised 
herself  from  her  seat  supporting  herself  upon  one 
hand,  and  faced  the  squire  with  wildly  staring  eyes. 


A  TALE  OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  177 

"  You  have  a  right  to  know,"  she  said.  "  He  is  in 
Portland  —  sentenced  to  twelve  years  hard  labour  for 
forgery." 

She  said  it  all,  to  the  end,  and  then  fell  back  into 
her  chair.  But  she  did  not  hide  her  face  this  time. 
The  fair  pathetic  features  were  quite  motionless  and 
white,  without  any  expression,  and  her  hands  lay 
with  the  palms  turned  upwards  on  her  knees. 

Charles  James  Juxon  was  a  man  of  few  words,  not 
given  to  using  strong  language  on  any  occasion.  But 
he  was  completely  overcome  by  the  horror  of  the 
thing.  He  turned  icy  cold  as  he  stood  still,  rooted 
to  the  spot,  and  he  uttered  aloud  one  strong  and 
solemn  ejaculation,  more  an  invocation  than  an  oath, 
as  though  he  called  on  heaven  to  witness  the  misery 
he  looked  upon.  He  gazed  at  the  colourless,  inani 
mate  face  of  the  poor  lady  and  walked  slowly  to  the 
window.  There  he  stood  for  fully  five  minutes, 
motionless,  staring  out  at  the  driving  sleet. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  fainted  away,  but  it  did  not 
occur  to  the  squire  to  attempt  to  recall  her  to  her 
senses.  It  seemed  merciful  that  she  should  have 
lost  consciousness  even  for  a  moment.  Indeed  she 
needed  no  help,  for  in  a  few  minutes  she  slowly 
opened  her  eyes  and  closed  them,  then  opened  them 
again  and  saw  Mr.  Juxon's  figure  darkening  the  win 
dow  against  the  grey  light. 

"  Mr.  Juxon,"  she  said  faintly,  "  come  here,  please." 

The  squire  started  and  turned.  Then  he  came  and 
sat  down  beside  her.  His  face  was  very  stern  and 
grave,  and  he  said  nothing. 

"Mr.  Juxon,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  speaking  in  a 
low  voice,  but  with  far  more  calm  than  he  could 
have  expected,  "  you  have  a  right  to  know  my  story. 


178       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  you  have  made  an 
honourable  offer  to  me,  you  have  said  you  were  my 
friend.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before.  If  I  had 
had  any  idea  of  what  was  passing  in  your  mind,  I 
would  have  told  you,  cost  what  it  might." 

Mr.  Juxon  gravely  bowed  his  head.  She  was  quite 
right,  he  thought.  He  had  a  right  to  know  all. 
With  all  his  kind-heartedness  he  was  a  stern  man  by 
nature. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Goddard,  "  you  have  every 
right  to  know.  My  husband,"  her  voice  trembled, 
"  was  the  head  of  an  important  firm  in  London.  I 
was  the  only  child  of  his  partner.  Not  long  after  my 
father's  death  I  married  Mr.  Goddard.  He  was  an 
extravagant  man  of  brilliant  tastes.  I  had  a  small 
fortune  of  my  own  which  my  father  had  settled  upon 
me,  independent  of  his  share  in  the  firm.  My  guar 
dians,  of  whom  my  husband  was  one,  advised  me  to 
leave  my  father's  fortune  in  the  concern.  When  I 
came  of  age,  a  year  after  my  marriage,  I  agreed  to  do 
it.  My  husband  —  I  never  knew  it  till  long  after 
wards —  was  very  rash.  He  speculated  on  the  Ex 
change  and  tampered  with  the  deposits  placed  in  his 
hands.  We  lived  in  great  luxury.  I  knew  nothing 
of  his  affairs.  Three  years  ago,  after  we  had  been 
married  nearly  ten  years,  the  firm  failed.  It  was  a 
fraudulent  bankruptcy.  My  husband  fled  but  was 
captured  and  brought  back.  It  appeared  that  at  the 
last  moment,  in  the  hope  of  retrieving  his  position  and 
saving  the  firm,  he  had  forged  the  name  of  one  of  his 
own  clients  for  a  large  amount.  We  had  a  country 
place  at  Putney  which  he  had  given  to  me.  I  sold 
it,  with  all  my  jewels  and  most  of  my  possessions. 
I  would  have  given  up  everything  I  possessed,  but  I 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       179 

thought  of  Nellie  —  poor  little  Nellie.  The  lawyers 
assured  me  that  I  ought  to  keep  my  own  little  fort 
une.  I  kept  about  five  hundred  a  year.  It  is  more 
than  I  need,  but  it  seemed  very  little  then.  The 
lawyer  who  conducted  the  defence,  such  as  it  was, 
advised  me  to  go  abroad,  but  I  would  not.  Then  he 
spoke  of  Mr.  Ambrose,  who  had  educated  his  son, 
and  gave  me  a  note  to  him.  I  came  here  and  I  told 
Mr.  Ambrose  my  whole  story.  I  only  wanted  to  be 
alone  —  I  thought  I  did  right  —  " 

Her  courage  had  sustained  her  so  far,  but  it  had 
been  a  great  effort.  Her  voice  trembled  and  broke 
and  at  last  the  tears  began  to  glisten  in  her  eyes. 

"Does  Nellie  know?"  asked  the  squire,  who  had 
sat  very  gravely  by  her  side,  but  who  was  in  reality 
deeply  moved. 

"No  —  she  thinks  he  —  that  he  is  dead,"  faltered 
Mrs.  Goddard.  Then  she  fairly  burst  into  tears  and 
sobbed  passionately,  covering  her  face  and  rocking 
herself  from  side  to  side. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  very  kindly  and 
laying  one  hand  upon  her  arm,  "pray  try  and  calm 
yourself.  Forgive  me  —  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me  for 
having  caused  you  so  much  pain  —  " 

"Do  you  still  call  me  a  friend?"  sobbed  the  poor 
lady. 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  quoth  the  squire  stoutly.  And  he 
meant  it.  Mrs.  Goddard  dropped  her  hands  and 
stared  into  the  fire  through  her  falling  tears. 

"  I  think  you  behaved  very  honourably  —  very 
generously,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon,  who  did  not 
know  precisely  how  to  console  her,  and  indeed 
stood  much  in  need  of  consolation  himself.  "Per 
haps  I  had  better  leave  you  —  you  are  very  much 


180       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

agitated — you  must  need  rest — would  you  not  rather 
that  I  should  go?" 

"  Yes  —  it  is  better,"  said  she,  still  staring  at  the 
fire.  "  You  know  all  about  me  now,"  she  added  in  a 
tone  of  pathetic  regret.  The  squire  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  with  some  hesitation,  "that  this 
—  this  very  unfortunate  day  will  not  prevent  our 
being  friends  —  better  friends  than  before  ?  " 

Mrs.  Goddard  looked  up  gratefully  through  her 
tears. 

"  How  good  you  are  !  "  she  said  softly. 

"  Not  at  all  —  I  am  not  at  all  good  —  I  only  want 
to  be  your  friend.  Good-bye  —  G  —  God  bless  you ! " 
He  seized  her  hand  and  squeezed  it  and  then  hurried 
out  of  the  room.  A  moment  later  he  was  crossing 
the  road  with  Stamboul,  who  was  very  tired  of  wait 
ing,  bounding  before  him. 

The  squire  was  not  a  romantic  character.  He  was 
a  strong  plain  man,  who  had  seen  the  world  and  was 
used  to  most  forms  of  danger  and  to  a  good  many 
forms  of  suffering.  He  was  kind-hearted  and  gener 
ous,  capable  of  feeling  sincere  sympathy  for  others, 
and  under  certain  circumstances  of  being  deeply 
wounded  himself.  He  had  indeed  a  far  more  refined 
nature  than  he  himself  suspected  and  on  this  memo 
rable  day  he  had  experienced  more  emotions  than 
he  remembered  to  have  felt  in  the  course  of  many 
years. 

After  long  debate  and  after  much  searching  inquiry 
into  his  own  motives  he  had  determined  to  offer  him 
self  to  Mre.  Goddard,  and  he  had  accordingly  done  so 
in  his  own  straightforward  manner.  It  had  seemed 
a  very  important  action  in  his  life,  a  very  solemn  step, 
but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  acute  sense  of  disap- 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAKISH.        181 

pointment  which  he  felt  when  Mrs.  Goddard  first  said 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  accept  him,  still  less  had 
he  anticipated  the  extraordinary  story  which  she  had 
told  him,  in  explanation  of  her  refusal.  His  ideas 
were  completely  upset.  That  Mrs.  Goddard  was  not 
a  widow  after  all,  was  almost  as  astounding  as  that 
she  should  prove  to  be  the  wife  of  a  felon.  But  Mr. 
Juxon  was  no  less  persuaded  that  she  herself  was  a 
perfectly  good  and  noble  woman,  than  he  had  been 
before.  He  felt  that  he  would  like  to  cut  the  throat 
of  the  villain  himself ;  but  he  resolved  that  he  would 
more  than  ever  try  to  be  a  good  friend  to  Mrs. 
Goddard. 

He  walked  slowly  through  the  storm  towards  his 
house,  his  broad  figure  facing  the"  wind  and  sleet  with 
as  much  ease  as  a  steamer  forging  against  a  head  sea. 
He  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  weather;  but 
Stamboul  slunk  along  at  his  heels,  shielding  himself 
from  the  driving  wet  snow  behind  his  master's  sturdy 
legs.  The  squire  was  very  much  disturbed.  The 
sight  of  his  own  solemn  butler  affected  him  strangely. 
He  stared  about  the  library  in  a  vacant  way,  as 
though  he  had  never  seen  the  place  before.  The 
realisation  of  his  own  calm  and  luxurious  life  seemed 
unnatural,  and  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  poor 
weeping  woman  he  had  just  left.  She,  too,  had 
enjoyed  all  this,  and  more  also.  She  had  probably 
been  richer  than  he.  And  now  she  was  living  on  five 
hundred  a  year  in  one  of  his  own  cottages,  hiding  her 
shame  in  desolate  Billingsfield,  the  shame  of  her 
husband,  the  forger. 

It  was  such  a  hopeless  position,  the  squire  thought. 
No  one  could  help  her,  no  one  could  do  anything  for 
her.  For  many  weeks,  revolving  the  situation  in  his 


182  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

mind,  he  had  amused  himself  by  thinking  how  she 
would  look  when  she  should  be  mistress  of  the  Hall, 
and  wondering  whether  little  Nellie  would  call  him 
"father,"  or  merely  "Mr.  Juxon."  And  now,  she 
turned  out  to  be  the  wife  of  a  forger,  sentenced  to 
hard  labour  in  a  convict  prison,  for  twelve  years. 
For  twelve  years  —  nearly  three  must  have  elapsed 
already.  In  nine  years  more  Goddard  would  be  out 
again.  Would  he  claim  his  wife?  Of  course  —  he 
would  come  back  to  her  for  support.  And  poor  little 
Nellie  thought  he  was  dead !  It  would  be  a  terrible 
day  when  she  had  to  be  told.  If  he  only  would  die 
in  prison !  —  but  men  sentenced  to  hard  labour  rarely 
die.  They  are  well  cared  for.  It  is  a  healthy  life. 
He  would  certainly  live  through  it  and  come  back  to 
claim  his  wife.  Poor  Mrs.  Goddard!  her  troubles 
were  not  ended  yet,  though  the  State  had  provided 
her  with  a  respite  of  twelve  years. 

The  squire  sat  long  in  his  easy-chair  in  the  great 
library,  and  forgot  to  dress  for  dinner  —  he  always 
dressed,  even  though  he  was  quite  alone.  But  the 
solemn  face  of  his  butler  betrayed  neither  emotion 
nor  surprise  when  the  master  of  the  Hall  walked  into 
the  dining-room  in  his  knickerbockers. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       183 


CHAPTER   XII. 

WHEN  Nellie  came  home  from  the  vicarage  she 
found  her  mother  looking  very  ill.  There  were  dark 
rings  under  her  eyes,  and  her  features  were  drawn 
and  tear-stained,  while  the  beautiful  waves  of  her 
brown  hair  had  lost  their  habitual  neatness  and  sym 
metry.  The  child  noticed  these  things,  with  a 
child's  quickness,  but  explained  them  on  the  ground 
that  her  mother's  headache  was  probably  much  worse. 
Mrs.  Goddard  accepted  the  explanation  and  on  the 
following  day  Nellie  had  forgotten  all  about  it;  but 
her  mother  remembered  it  long,  and  it  was  many 
days  before  she  recovered  entirely  from  the  shock  of 
her  interview  with  the  squire.  The  latter  did  not 
come  to  see  her  as  usual,  but  on  the  morning  after 
his  visit  he  sent  her  down  a  package  of  books  and 
some  orchids  from  his  hothouses.  He  thought  it 
best  to  leave  her  to  herself  for  a  little  while ;  the  very 
sight  of  him,  he  argued,  would  be  painful  to  her,  and 
any  meeting  with  her  would  be  painful  to  himself. 
He  did  not  go  out  of  the  house,  but  spent  the  whole 
day  in  his  library  among  his  books,  not  indeed  read 
ing,  but  pretending  to  himself  that  he  was  very 
busy.  Being  a  strong  and  sensible  man  he  did  not 
waste  time  in  bemoaning  his  sorrows,  but  he  thought 
about  them  long  and  earnestly.  The  more  he  thought, 
the  more  it  appeared  to  him  that  Mrs.  Goddard  was 
the  person  who  deserved  pity  rather  than  he  himself. 


184  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

His  mind  dwelt  on  the  terrors  of  her  position  in  case 
her  husband  should  return  and  claim  his  wife  and 
daughter  when  the  twelve  years  were  over,  and  he 
thought  with  horror  of  Nellie's  humiliation,  if  at  the 
age  of  twenty  she  should  discover  that  her  father 
during  all  these  years  had  not  been  honourably  dead 
and  buried,  but  had  been  suffering  the  punishment 
of  a  felon  in  Portland.  That  the  only  attempt  he 
had  ever  made  to  enter  the  matrimonial  state  should 
have  been  so  singularly  unfortunate  was  indeed  a 
matter  which  caused  him  sincere  sorrow;  he  had 
thought  too  often  of  being  married  to  Mary  Goddard 
to  be  able  to  give  up  the  idea  without  a  sigh.  But 
it  is  due  to  him  to  say  that  in  the  midst  of  his  own 
disappointment  he  thought  much  more  of  her  sorrows 
than  of  his  own,  a  state  of  mind  most  probably  due  to 
his  temperament. 

He  saw  also  how  impossible  it  was  to  console  Mrs. 
Goddard  or  even  to  alleviate  the  distress  of  mind 
which  she  must  constantly  feel.  Her  destiny  was 
accomplished  in  part,  and  the  remainder  seemed 
absolutely  inevitable.  No  one  could  prevent  her 
husband  from  leaving  his  prison  when  his  crime  was 
expiated ;  and  no  one  could  then  prevent  him  from 
joining  his  wife  and  ending  his  life  under  her  roof. 
At  least  so  it  seemed.  Endless  complications  would 
follow.  Mrs.  Goddard  would  certainly  have  to  leave 
Billingsfield  —  no  one  could  expect  the  Ambroses  or 
the  squire  himself  to  associate  with  a  convict  forger. 
Mr.  Juxon  vaguely  wondered  whether  he  should  live 
another  nine  years  to  see  the  end  of  all  this,  and  he 
inwardly  determined  to  go  to  sea  again  rather  than 
to  witness  such  misery.  He  could  not  see,  no  one 
could  see  how  things  could  possibly  turn  out  in  any 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  185 

other  way.  It  would  have  been  some  comfort  to  have 
gone  to  the  vicar,  and  to  have  discussed  with  him  the 
possibilities  of  Mrs.  Goddard's  future.  The  vicar 
was  a  man  after  his  own  heart,  honest,  reliable, 
charitable  and  brave;  but  Mr.  Juxon  thought  that 
it  would  not  be  quite  loyal  towards  Mrs.  Goddard  if 
he  let  any  one  else  know  that  he  was  acquainted  with 
her  story. 

For  two  days  he  stayed  at  home  and  then  he  went 
to  see  her.  To  his  surprise  she  received  him  very 
quietly,  much  as  she  usually  did,  without  betraying 
any  emotion ;  whereupon  he  wished  that  he  had  not 
allowed  two  days  to  pass  without  making  his  usual 
visit.  Mrs.  Goddard  almost  wished  so  too.  She  had 
been  so  much  accustomed  to  regard  the  squire  as  a 
friend,  and  she  had  so  long  been  used  to  the  thought 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  knew  of  her  past  trouble, 
that  the  fact  of  the  squire  becoming  acquainted  with 
her  history  seemed  to  her  less  important,  now  that  it 
was  accomplished,  than  it  seemed  to  the  squire  him 
self.  She  had  long  thought  of  telling  him  all ;  she  had 
seriously  contemplated  doing  so  when  he  first  came 
to  Billingsfield,  and  now  at  last  the  thing  was  done. 
She  was  glad  of  it.  She  was  no  longer  in  a  false 
position;  he  could  never  again  think  of  marrying 
her;  they  could  henceforth  meet  as  friends,  since  he 
was  so  magnanimous  as  to  allow  their  friendship  to 
exist.  Her  pride  had  suffered  so  terribly  in  the 
beginning  that  it  was  past  suffering  now.  She  felt 
that  she  was  in  the  position  of  a  suppliant  asking 
only  for  a  quiet  resting-place  for  herself  and  her 
daughter,  and  she  was  grateful  to  the  people  who 
gave  her  what  she  asked,  feeling  that  she  had  fallen 
among  good  Samaritans,  whereas  in  merry  England 


186  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

it  would  have  been  easy  for  her  to  have  fallen  among 
priests  and  Pharisees. 

So  it  came  about  that  in  a  few  days  her  relations 
with  Mr.  Juxon  were  re-established  upon  a  new  basis, 
but  more  firmly  and  satisfactorily  than  before,  seeing 
that  now  there  was  no  possibility  of  mistake.  And 
for  a  long  time  it  seemed  as  though  matters  would 
go  on  as  before.  Neither  Mrs.  Goddard  nor  the 
squire  ever  referred  to  the  interview  on  that  memo 
rable  stormy  afternoon,  and  so  far  as  the  squire  could 
judge  his  life  and  hers  might  go  on  with  perfect  tran 
quillity  until  it  should  please  the  powers  that  be  and 
the  governor  of  Portland  to  set  Mr.  Walter  Goddard 
at  liberty.  Heaven  only  knew  what  would  happen 
then,  but  it  was  provided  that  there  should  be  plenty 
of  time  to  prepare  for  anything  which  might  ensue. 
The  point  upon  which  Mrs.  Goddard  had  not  spoken 
plainly  was  that  which  concerned  her  probable  treat 
ment  of  her  husband  after  his  liberation.  She  had 
passed  that  question  over  in  silence.  She  had  prob 
ably  never  dared  to  decide.  Most  probably  she  would 
at  the  last  minute  seek  some  safer  retreat  than  Bil- 
lingsfield  and  make  up  her  mind  to  hide  for  the  rest 
of  her  life.  But  Mr.  Juxon  had  heard  of  women  vrho 
had  carried  charity  as  far  as  to  receive  back  their  hus 
bands  under  even  worse  circumstances ;  women  were 
soft-hearted  creatures,  reflected  the  squire,  and  capa 
ble  of  anything. 

Few  people  in  such  a  situation  could  have  acted 
consistently  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  But 
Mr.  Juxon 's  extremely  reticent  nature  found  it  easy 
to  bury  other  people's  important  secrets  at  least  as 
deeply  as  he  buried  the  harmless  details  of  his  own 
honest  life.  Not  a  hair  of  his  smooth  head  was 


A  TALE  OF  A  LOXELY  PARISH.       187 

ruffled,  not  a  line  of  his  square  manly  face  was  dis 
turbed.  He  looked  and  acted  precisely  as  he  had 
looked  and  acted  before.  His  butler  remarked  that 
he  ate  a  little  less  heartily  of  late,  and  that  on  one 
evening,  as  has  been  recorded,  the  squire  forgot  to 
dress  for  dinner.  But  the  butler  in  his  day  had  seen 
greater  eccentricities  than  these ;  he  had  the  greatest 
admiration  for  Mr.  Juxon  and  was  not  inclined  to 
cavil  at  small  things.  A  real  gentleman,  of  the  good 
sort,  who  dressed  for  dinner  when  he  was  alone,  who 
never  took  too  much  wine,  who  never  bullied  the 
servants  nor  quarrelled  unjustly  with  the  bills,  was, 
as  the  butler  expressed  it,  "  not  to  be  sneezed  at,  on 
no  account."  The  place  was  a  little  dull,  but  the 
functionary  was  well  stricken  in  years  and  did  not 
like  hard  work.  Mr.  Juxon  seemed  to  be  conscious 
that  as  he  never  had  visitors  at  the  Hall  and  as  there 
were  consequently  no  "tips,"  his  staff  was  entitled 
to  an  occasional  fee,  which  he  presented  always  with 
great  regularity,  and  which  had  the  desired  effect. 
He  was  a  generous  man  as  well  as  a  just. 

The  traffic  in  roses  and  orchids  and  new  books 
continued  as  usual  between  the  Hall  and  the  cottage, 
and  for  many  weeks  nothing  extraordinary  occurred. 
Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Mrs.  Goddard  met  frequently, 
and  the  only  difference  to  be  observed  in  the  manner 
of  the  former  was  that  she  mentioned  John  Short 
very  often,  and  every  time  she  mentioned  him  she 
fixed  her  grey  eyes  sternly  upon  Mrs.  Goddard,  who 
however  did  not  notice  the  scrutiny,  or,  if  she  did, 
was  not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  it.  For  a  long  time 
Mrs.  Ambrose  entertained  a  feeble  intention  of  ad 
dressing  Mrs.  Goddard  directly  upon  the  subject  of 
John's  affections,  but  the  longer  she  put  off  doing 


188       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

so,  the  harder  it  seemed  to  do  it.  Mrs.  Ambrose  had 
great  faith  in  the  sternness  of  her  eye  under  certain 
circumstances,  and  seeing  that  Mrs.  Goddard  never 
winced,  she  gradually  fell  into  the  belief  that  John 
had  been  the  more  to  blame,  if  there  was  any  blame 
in  the  matter.  She  had  indeed  succeeded  in  the  first 
instance,  by  methods  of  her  own  which  have  been 
heretofore  detailed,  in  extracting  a  sort  of  reluctant 
admission  from  her  husband;  but  since  that  day  he 
had  proved  obdurate  to  all  entreaty.  Once  only  he 
had  said  with  considerable  impatience  that  John  was 
a  very  silly  boy,  and  was  much  better  engaged  with 
his  books  at  college  than  in  running  after  Mrs.  God 
dard.  That  was  all,  and  gradually  as  the  regular 
and  methodical  life  at  the  vicarage  effaced  the  mem 
ory  of  the  doings  -at  Christmas  time,  the  good  Mrs. 
Ambrose  forgot  that  anything  unpleasant  had  ever 
occurred.  There  was  no  disturbance  of  the  existing 
relations  and  everything  went  on  as  before  for  many 
weeks.  The  February  thaw  set  in  early  and  the 
March  winds  began  to  blow  before  February  was 
fairly  out.  Nat  Barker  the  octogenarian  cripple, 
who  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  weather  prophet, 
was  understood  to  have  said  that  the  spring  was 
"loike  to  be  forrard  t'year,"  and  the  minds  of  the 
younger  inhabitants  were  considerably  relieved.  Not 
that  Nat  Barker's  prophecies  were  usually  fulfilled ; 
no  one  ever  remembered  them  at  the  time  when  they 
might  have  been  verified.  But  they  were  always 
made  at  the  season  when  people  had  nothing  to  do 
but  to  talk  about  them.  Mr.  Thomas  Reid,  the  con 
servative  sexton,  turned  up  his  nose  at  them,  and 
said  he  "  wished  Nat  Barker  had  to  dig  a  parish  depth 
grave  in  three  hours  without  a  drop  of  nothin'  to  wet 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       189 

his  pipe  with,  and  if  he  didden  fine  that  groun'  on- 
common  owdacious  Thomas  Reid  he  didden  know. 
They  didden  know  nothin',  sir,  them  parish  crip 
ples."  Wherewith  the  worthy  sexton  took  his  way 
with  a  battered  tin  can  to  get  his  "fours"  at  the 
Feathers.  He  did  not  patronise  the  Duke's  Head. 
It  was  too  new-fangled  for  him,  and  he  suspected  his 
arch  enemy,  Mr.  Abraham  Boosey,  of  putting  a  rat 
or  two  into  the  old  beer  to  make  it  "draw,"  which 
accounted  for  its  being  so  "hard."  But  Mr.  Abra 
ham  Boosey  was  the  undertaker,  and  he,  Thomas 
Reid,  was  the  sexton,  and  it  did  not  do  to  express 
these  views  too  loudly,  lest  perchance  Mr.  Boosey 
should,  just  in  his  play,  construct  a  coffin  or  two  just 
too  big  for  the  regulation  grave,  and  thereby  leave 
Mr.  Reid  in  the  lurch.  For  the  undertaker  and  the 
gravedigger  are  as  necessary  to  each  other,  as  Mr. 
Reid  maintained,  as  a  pair  of  blackbirds  in  a  hedge. 
But  the  spring  was  "  forrard  t'year  "  and  the  weather 
was  consequently  even  more  detestable  than  usual  at 
that  season.  The  roads  were  heavy.  The  rain 
seemed  never  weary  of  pouring  down  and  the  wind 
never  tired  of  blowing.  The  wet  and  leafless  creep 
ers  beat  against  the  walls  of  the  cottage,  and  the 
chimneys  smoked  both  there  and  at  the  vicarage. 
The  rooms  were  pervaded  with  a  disagreeable  smell 
of  damp  coal  smoke,  and  the  fires  struggled  desper 
ately  to  burn  against  the  overwhelming  odds  of  rain 
and  wind  which  came  down  the  chimneys.  Mrs. 
Goddard  never  remembered  to  have  been  so  uncom 
fortable  during  the  two  previous  winters  she  had 
spent  in  Billingsfield,  and  even  Nellie  grew  im 
patient  and  petulant.  The  only  bright  spot  in  those 
long  days  seemed  to  be  made  by  the  regular  visits  of 


190  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

Mr.  Juxon,  by  the  equally  regular  bi-weekly  appear 
ance  of  the  Ambroses  when  they  came  to  tea,  and  by 
the  little  dinners  at  the  vicarage.  The  weather  had 
grown  so  wet  and  the  roads  so  bad  that  on  these  latter 
occasions  the  vicar  sent  his  dogcart  with  Reynolds 
and  the  old  mare,  Strawberry,  to  fetch  his  two  guests. 
Even  Mr.  Juxon,  who  always  walked  when  he  could, 
had  got  into  the  habit  of  driving  down  to  the  cottage 
in  a  strange-looking  gig  which  he  had  imported  from 
America,  and  which,  among  all  the  many  possessions 
of  the  squire,  alone  attracted  the  unfavourable  com 
ment  of  his  butler.  He  would  have  preferred  to  see 
a  good  English  dogcart,  high  in  the  seat  and  wheels, 
at  the  door  of  the  Hall,  instead  of  that  outlandish 
vehicle;  but  Joseph  Ruggles,  the  groom,  explained 
to  him  that  it  was  easier  to  clean  than  a  dogcart,  and 
that  when  it  rained  he  sat  inside  with  the  squire. 

On  a  certain  evening  in  February,  towards  the  end 
of  the  month,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Mr.  Juxon 
came  to  have  tea  with  Mrs.  Goddard.  Mr.  Juxon 
had  at  first  not  been  regularly  invited  to  these  enter 
tainments.  They  were  perhaps  not  thought  worthy 
of  his  grandeur;  at  all  events  both  the  vicar's  wife 
and  Mrs.  Goddard  had  asked  him  very  rarely.  But 
as  time  went  on  and  Mr.  Juxon 's  character  developed 
under  the  eyes  of  the  little  Billingsfield  society,  it 
had  become  apparent  to  every  one  that  he  was  a  very 
simple  man,  making  no  pretensions  whatever  to  any 
superiority  on  account  of  his  station.  They  grew 
more  and  more  fond  of  him,  and  ended  by  asking  him 
to  their  small  sociable  evenings.  On  these  occasions 
it  generally  occurred  that  the  squire  and  the  vicar  fell 
into  conversation  about  classical  and  literary  subjects 
while  the  two  ladies  talked  of  the  little  incidents 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  191 

of  Billingsfield  life,  of  Tom  Judd's  wife  and  baby, 
of  Joe  Staines,  the  choir  boy,  who  was  losing  his 
voice,  and  of  similar  topics  of  interest  in  the  very 
small  world  in  which  they  lived. 

The  present  evening  had  not  been  at  all  a  remark 
able  one  so  far  as  the  talk  was  concerned.  The 
drenching  rain,  the  tendency  of  the  fire  to  smoke, 
the  general  wetness  and  condensed  depravity  of  the 
atmosphere  had  affected  the  spirits  of  the  little 
party.  They  were  not  gay,  and  they  broke  up  early. 
It  was  not  nine  o'clock  when  all  had  gone,  and  Mrs. 
Goddard  and  little  Eleanor  were  left  alone  by  the 
side  of  their  drawing-room  fire.  The  child  sat  upon 
a  footstool  and  leaned  her  head  against  her  mother's 
knee.  Mrs.  Goddard  herself  was  thoughtful  and 
sad,  without  precisely  knowing  why.  She  generally 
looked  forward  with  pleasure  to  meeting  the  Am 
broses,  but  this  evening  she  had  been  rather  disap 
pointed.  The  conversation  had  dragged,  and  the 
excellent  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  been  more  than  usually 
prosy.  Nellie  had  complained  of  a  headache  and 
leaned  wearily  against  her  mother's  knee. 

"  Tell  me  a  story,  mamma  —  won't  you  ?  Like  the 
ones  you  used  to  tell  me  when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl. " 

"Dear  child,"  said  her  mother,  who  was  not  think 
ing  of  story-telling,  "I  am  afraid  I  have  forgotten 
all  the  ones  I  ever  knew.  Besides,  darling,  it  is 
time  for  you  to  go  to  bed." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,  mamma.  It  is  such  a 
horrid  night.  The  wind  keeps  me  awake." 

"You  will  not  sleep  at  all  if  I  tell  you  a  story," 
objected  Mrs.  Goddard. 

"Mr.  Juxon  tells  me  such  nice  stories,"  said 
Nellie,  reproachfully. 


192  A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY   PARISH. 

"What  are  they  about,  dear?" 

"Oh,  his  stories  are  beautiful.  They  are  always 
about  ships  and  the  blue  sea  and  wonderful  desert 
islands  where  he  has  been.  What  a  wonderful  man 
he  is,  mamma,  is  not  he  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear,  he  talks  very  interestingly."  Mrs. 
Goddard  stroked  Nellie's  brown  curls  and  looked  into 
the  fire. 

"  He  told  me  that  once,  ever  so  many  years  ago  — 
he  must  be  very  old,  mamma  —  "  Nellie  paused  and 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  Well,  darling  —  not  so  very,  very  old.  I  think 
he  is  over  forty." 

"Over  forty  —  four  times  eleven  —  he  is  not  four 
times  as  old  as  I  am.  Almost,  though.  All  his 
stories  are  ever  so  many  years  ago.  He  said  he  was 
sailing  away  ever  so  far,  in  a  perfectly  new  ship,  and 
the  name  of  the  ship  was  —  let  me  see,  what  was  the 
name  ?  I  think  it  was  — 

Mrs.  Goddard  started  suddenly  and  laid  her  hand 
on  the  child's  shoulder. 

"Did  you  hear  anything,  Nellie?"  she  asked 
quickly.  Nellie  looked  up  in  some  surprise. 

"  No,  mamma.  When  ?  Just  now  ?  It  must  have 
been  the  wind.  It  is  such  a  horrid  night.  The 
name  of  the  ship  was  the  'Zephyr'— I  remember, 
now."  She  looked  up  again  to  see  if  her  mother  was 
listening  to  the  story.  Mrs.  Goddard  looked  pale 
and  glanced  uneasily  towards  the  closed  window. 
She  had  probably  been  mistaken. 

"  And  where  did  the  ship  sail  to,  Nellie  dear  ?  "  she 
asked,  smoothing  the  child's  curls  again  and  forcing 
herself  to  smile. 

"  Oh  —  the  ship  was  a  perfectly  new  ship  and  it 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  193 

was  the  most  beautiful  weather  in  the  world.  They 
were  sailing  away  ever  so  far,  towards  the  straits  of 
Magellan.  I  was  so  glad  because  I  knew  where  the 
straits  of  Magellan  were  —  and  Mr.  Juxon  was  im 
mensely  astonished.  But  I  had  been  learning  about 
the  Terra  del  Fuego,  and  the  people  who  were  frozen 
there,  in  my  geography  that  very  morning  —  was  not 
it  lucky?  So  I  knew  all  about  it  —  mamma,  how 
nervous  you  are!  It  is  nothing  but  the  wind.  I 
wish  you  would  listen  to  my  story  —  " 

"I  am  listening,  darling, " said  Mrs.  Goddard,  mak 
ing  a  strong  effort  to  overcome  her  agitation  and  draw 
ing  the  child  closer  to  her.  "  Go  on,  sweetheart  — 
you  were  in  the  straits  of  Magellan,  you  said,  sailing 
away  —  " 

"Mr.  Juxon  was,  mamma,"  said  Nellie  correcting 
her  mother  with  the  asperity  of  a  child  who  does  not 
receive  all  the  attention  it  expects. 

"  Of  course,  dear,  Mr.  Juxon,  and  the  ship  was  the 
'Zephyr.'" 

"Yes — the  'Zephyr,'"  repeated  Nellie,  who  was 
easily  pacified.  "  It  was  at  Christmas  time  he  said 
—  but  that  is  summer  in  the  southern  hemisphere," 
she  added,  proud  of  her  knowledge.  "  So  it  was  ve^ 
fine  weather.  And  Mr.  Juxon  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  deck  in  the  afternoon,  smoking  a  cigar —  " 

"He  never  smokes,  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  God 
dard,  glad  to  show  Nellie  that  she  was  listening. 

"Well,  but  he  did  then,  because  he  said  so,"  re 
turned  Nellie  unmoved.  "And  as  he  walked  and 
looked  out  —  sailors  always  look  out,  you  know  —  he 
saw  the  most  wonderful  thing,  close  to  the  ship  —  the 
most  wonderful  thing  he  ever  saw,"  added  Nellie 
with  some  redundance  of  expression. 


194  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"Was  it  a  whale,  child?"  asked  her  mother,  star 
ing  into  the  fire  and  trying  to  pay  attention. 

"A  whale,  mamma!"  repeated  Nellie  contemptu 
ously.  "  As  if  there  were  anything  remarkable  about 
a  whale !  Mr.  Juxon  has  seen  billions  of  whales,  I 
am  sure." 

"Well,  what  was  it,  dear?" 

"  It  was  the  most  awfully  tremendous  thing  with 
green  and  blue  scales,  a  thousand  times  as  big  as  the 
ship  —  oh  mamma !  What  was  that  ?  " 

Nellie  started  up  from  her  stool  and  knelt  beside 
her  mother,  looking  towards  the  window.  Mrs. 
Goddard  was  deathly  pale  and  grasped  the  arm  of  her 
chair. 

"  Somebody  knocked  at  the  window,  mamma,"  said 
Nellie  breathlessly.  "And  then  somebody  said 
4  Mary  '  —  quite  loud.  Oh  mamma,  what  can  it  be  ?  " 

"Mary?"  repeated  Mrs.  Goddard  as  though  she 
were  in  a  dream. 

"  Yes  —  quite  loud.  Oh  mamma !  it  must  be 
Mary's  young  man  —  he  does  sometimes  come  in  the 
evening." 

"Mary's  young  man,  child?"  Mrs.  Goddard's 
heart  leaped.  Her  cook's  name  was  Mary,  as  well 
as  her  own.  Nellie  naturally  never  associated  the 
name  with  her  mother,  as  she  never  heard  anybody 
call  her  by  it. 

"Yes  mamma.  Don't  you  know?  The  postman 
—  the  man  with  the  piebald  horse."  The  explana 
tion  was  necessary,  as  Mrs.  Goddard  rarely  received 
any  letters  and  probably  did  not  know  the  postman 
by  sight. 

"At  this  time  of  night!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  God 
dard.  "It  is  too  bad.  Mary  is  gone  to  bed." 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  195 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  3^011  are  gone  to  the  vicarage 
and  that  Mary  is  sitting  up  for  you  in  the  drawing- 
room,"  suggested  Nellie  with  much  good  sense. 
"Well,  he  can't  come  in,  can  he,  mamma?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  her  mother.  "But  I  think 
you  had  much  better  go  to  bed,  my  dear.  It  is  half- 
past  nine."  She  spoke  indistinctly,  almost  thickly, 
and  seemed  to  be  making  a  violent  effort  to  control 
herself.  But  Nellie  had  settled  down  upon  her  stool 
again,  and  did  not  notice  her  mother. 

"Oh  not  yet,"  said  she.  "I  have  not  nearly  fin 
ished  about  the  sea-serpent.  Mr.  Juxon  said  it  was 
not  like  anything  in  the  world.  Do  listen,  mamma ! 
It  is  the  most  wonderful  story  you  ever  heard.  It  was 
all  covered  with  blue  and  green  scales,  and  it  rolled, 
and  rolled,  and  rolled,  and  rolled,  till  at  last  it  rolled 
up  against  the  side  of  the  ship  with  such  a  tremendous 
bump  that  Mr.  Juxon  fell  right  down  on  his  back." 

"Yes  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  mechanically,  as 
the  child  paused. 

"You  don't  seem  to  mind  at  all!  "  cried  Nellie, 
who  felt  that  her  efforts  to  amuse  her  mother  were 
not  properly  appreciated.  "He  fell  right  down  on 
his  back  and  hurt  himself  awfully." 

"That  was  very  sad,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "Did 
he  catch  the  sea-serpent  afterwards  ?  " 

"Catch  the  sea-serpent!  Why  mamma,  don't  you 
know  that  nobody  has  ever  caught  the  sea-serpent? 
Why,  hardly  anybody  has  ever  seen  him,  even!  " 

"  Yes  dear,  but  I  thought  Mr.  Juxon  - 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Juxon  is  the  most  wonderful  man 
—  but  he  could  not  catch  the  sea-serpent.  Just 
fancy !  When  he  got  up  from  his  fall,  he  looked  and 
he  saw  him  quite  half  a  mile  away.  He  must  have 


196  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

gone  awfully  fast,  should  not  you  think  so  ?    Because, 
you  know,  it  was  only  a  minute." 

"Yes,  my  child;  and  it  is  a  beautiful  story,  and 
you  told  it  so  nicely.  It  is  very  interesting  and  you 
must  tell  me  another  to-morrow.  But  now,  dear, 
you  must  really  go  to  bed,  because  I  am  going  to  bed, 
too.  That  man  startled  me  so,"  she  said,  passing  her 
small  white  hand  over  her  pale  forehead  and  then 
staring  into  the  fire. 

"Well,  I  don't  wonder,"  answered  Nellie  in  a 
patronising  tone.  "Such  a  dreadful  night  too!  Of 
course,  it  would  startle  anybody.  But  he  won't  try 
again,  and  you  can  scold  Mary  to-morrow  and  then 
she  can  scold  her  young  man." 

The  child  spoke  so  naturally  that  all  doubts  van 
ished  from  Mrs.  Goddard's  mind.  She  reflected  that 
children  are  much  more  apt  to  see  things  as  they 
are,  than  grown  people  whose  nerves  are  out  of  order. 
Nellie's  conclusions  were  perfectly  logical,  and  it 
seemed  folly  to  doubt  them.  She  determined  that 
Mary  should  certainly  be  scolded  on  the  morrow  and 
she  unconsciously  resolved  in  her  mind  the  words  she 
should  use ;  for  she  was  rather  a  timid  woman  and 
stood  a  little  in  awe  of  her  stalwart  Berkshire  cook, 
with  her  mighty  arms  and  her  red  face,  and  her  un 
commonly  plain  language. 

"Yes  dear,"  she  said  more  quietly  than  she  had 
been  able  to  speak  for  some  time,  "  I  have  no  doubt 
you  are  quite  right.  I  thought  I  heard  his  footsteps 
just  now,  going  down  the  path.  So  he  will  not 
trouble  us  any  more  to-night.  And  now  darling, 
kneel  down  and  say  your  prayers,  and  then  we  will 
go  to  bed." 

So  Nellie,  reassured  by  the  news  that  her  mother 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       197 

was  going  to  bed,  too,  knelt  down  as  she  had  done 
every  night  during  the  eleven  years  of  her  life,  and 
clasped  her  hands  together,  beneath  her  mother's. 
Then  she  cleared  her  throat,  then  she  glanced  at  the 
clock,  then  she  looked  for  one  moment  into  the  sweet 
serious  violet  eyes  that  looked  down  on  her  so  lov 
ingly,  and  then  at  last  she  bent  her  lovely  little 
head  and  began  to  say  her  prayers,  there,  by  the  fire, 
at  her  mother's  knees,  while  angry  storm  howled 
fiercely  without  and  shook  the  closed  panes  and  shut 
ters  and  occasional  drops  of  rain,  falling  down  the 
short  chimney,  sputtered  in  the  smouldering  coal 
fire. 

"  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven,  Hallowed  be 
Thy  Name,  Thy  Kingdom  come  —  " 

Nellie  gave  a  loud  scream  and  springing  up  from 
her  knees  flung  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck, 
in  uttermost,  wildest  terror. 

"Mamma,  mamma!"  she  cried  looking,  and  yet 
hardly  daring  to  look,  back  towards  the  closed  win 
dow.  "It  called  'MARY  GODDARD'!  It  is  you, 
mamma!  Oh!" 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  this  time.  While 
Nellie  was  saying  her  prayer  there  had  come  three 
sharp  and  distinct  raps  upon  the  wooden  shutter,  and 
a  voice,  not  loud  but  clear,  penetrating  into  the  room 
in  spite  of  wind  and  storm  and  rain. 

"Mary  Goddard!  Mary  Goddard!  "  it  said. 

Mrs.  Goddard  started  to  her  feet,  lifting  Nellie 
bodily  from  the  ground  in  her  agony  of  terror;  star 
ing  round  the  room  wildly  as  though  in  search  of 
some  possible  escape. 

"  I  must  come  in!  I  will  come  in !  "  said  the  voice 
again. 


198  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"Oh  don't  let  him  in!  Mamma!  Don't  let  him 
in  I "  moaned  the  terrified  child  upon  her  breast, 
clinging  to  her  and  weighing  her  down,  and  grasping 
her  neck  and  arm  with  convulsive  strength. 

But  in  moments  of  great  agitation  timid  people, 
or  people  who  are  thought  timid,  not  uncommonly  do 
brave  things.  Mrs.  Goddard  unclasped  Nellie's  hold 
and  forced  the  terror-struck  child  into  a  deep  chair. 

"Stay  there,  darling,"  she  said  with  unnatural 
calmness.  "  Do  not  be  afraid.  I  will  go  and  open 
the  door." 

Nellie  was  now  too  much  frightened  to  resist. 
Mrs.  Goddard  went  out  into  the  little  passage  which 
was  dimly  lighted  by  a  hanging  lamp,  and  closed  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room  behind  her.  She  could 
hear  Nellie's  occasional  convulsive  sobs  distinctly. 
For  one  moment  she  paused,  her  right  hand  on  the 
lock  of  the  front  door,  her  left  hand  pressed  to  her 
side,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  passage.  Then 
she  turned  the  key  and  the  handle  and  drew  the  door 
in  towards  her.  A  violent  gust  of  wind,  full  of  cold 
and  drenching  rain,  whirled  into  the  passage  and 
almost  blinded  her.  The  lamp  flickered  in  the  lan 
tern  overhead.  But  she  looked  boldly  out,  facing 
the  wind  and  weather. 

"  Come  in !  "  she  called  in  a  low  voice. 

Immediately  there  was  a  sound  as  of  footsteps 
coming  from  the  direction  of  the  drawing-room  win 
dow,  across  the  wet  slate  flags  which  surrounded  the 
cottage,  and  a  moment  afterwards,  peering  through 
the  darkness,  Mrs.  Goddard  saw  a  man  with  a  ghastly 
face  standing  before  her  in  the  rain. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       199 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MRS.  GODDARD'S  heart  stood  still  as  she  looked  at 
the  wretched  man,  and  tried  to  discover  her  hus 
band's  face,  even  a  resemblance  to  him,  in  the  hag 
gard  features  she  saw  close  before  her.  But  he  gave 
her  small  time  for  reflection ;  so  soon  as  he  had  rec 
ognised  her  he  sprang  past  her  into  the  passage  and 
pulling  her  after  him  closed  the  door. 

"Mary  —  don't  you  know  me?"  he  said,  in  low 
tones.  "  You  must  save  me  —  they  are  after  me  —  " 
He  stood  close  beside  her  in  the  narrow  way,  beneath 
the  small  lamp ;  he  tried  to  put  his  arm  around  her 
and  he  bent  down  and  brought  his  ghastly  face  close 
to  hers.  But  she  drew  back  as  from  a  contamina 
tion.  She  was  horrified,  and  it  was  a  natural  move 
ment.  She  knew  his  voice  even  better  than  his 
features,  now  that  he  spoke.  He  pressed  nearer  to 
her  and  she  thrust  him  back  with  her  hands.  Then 
suddenly  a  thought  struck  her;  she  took  him  by  the 
sleeve  and  led  him  into  the  dining-room.  There 
was  no  light  there ;  she  pushed  him  in. 

"  Stay  there  one  minute  —  " 

uNo  —  no,  you  won't  call  —  " 

"  I  will  save  you  —  there  is  —  there  is  somebody  in 
the  drawing-room."  Before  he  could  answer  her  she 
was  gone,  leaving  him  alone  in  the  dark.  He  lis 
tened  intently,  not  venturing  to  leave  the  spot  where 
she  had  placed  him;  he  thought  he  heard  voices  and 


200  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

footsteps,  but  no  one  came  out  into  the  passage.  It 
seemed  an  eternity  to  wait.  At  last  she  came,  bear 
ing  a  lighted  candle  in  her  hand.  She  carefully 
shut  the  door  of  the  dining-room  behind  her  and  put 
the  light  upon  the  table.  She  moved  like  a  person 
in  a  dream. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  chair.  "Are 
you  hungry?"  His  sunken  eyes  sparkled.  She 
brought  food  and  ale  and  set  them  before  him.  He 
ate  and  drank  voraciously  in  silence.  She  sat  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table  —  the  solitary  candle 
between  them,  and  shading  her  eyes  with  one  hand 
she  gazed  at  his  face. 

Walter  Goddard  was  a  man  at  least  forty  years  of 
age.  He  had  been  thought  veiy  handsome  once.  He 
had  light  blue  eyes  and  a  fair  skin  with  flaxen  hair  — 
now  cropped  short  and  close  to  his  head.  There  was 
nearly  a  fortnight's  growth  of  beard  upon  his  face, 
but  it  was  not  yet  sufficient  to  hide  his  mouth  and 
chin.  He  had  formerly  worn  a  heavy  moustache  and 
it  was  chiefly  the  absence  of  it  which  now  made  it 
hard  for  his  wife  to  recognise  him.  A  battered 
hat,  drenched  and  dripping  with  rain,  shaded  his 
brows.  Possibly  he  was  ashamed  to  remove  it.  His 
mouth  was  small  and  weak  and  his  jaw  was  pointed. 
His  whole  expression  was  singularly  disagreeable  — 
his  hands  were  filthy,  and  his  face  was  not  clean. 
About  his  neck  was  twisted  a  ragged  woollen  com 
forter,  and  he  wore  a  smock-frock  which  was  now 
soaked  with  water  and  clung  to  his  thin  figure.  He 
devoured  the  food  his  wife  had  brought  him,  shiver 
ing  from  time  to  time  as  though  he  were  still  cold. 

Mrs.  Goddard  watched  him  in  silence.  She  had 
done  mechanically  according  to  her  first  instinct,  had 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  201 

led  him  in  and  had  given  him  food.  But  she  had  not 
recovered  herself  sufficiently  from  her  first  horror  and 
astonishment  to  realise  her  situation.  At  last  she 
spoke. 

"  How  did  you  escape  ?  "  she  asked.  He  bent  lower 
than  before,  over  his  plate  and  would  not  look  at  her. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  she  inquired  again.  God- 
dard  laughed  harshly;  his  voice  was  hoarse  and 
cracked. 

"  Why  did  I  do  it!  "  he  repeated.  "  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  any  one  who  would  not  escape  from  prison  if 
he  had  the  chance?  Don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
Mary—" 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  seem  very  glad  to  see  me,"  he  answered 
roughly.  "I  might  have  known  it." 

"Yes,  you  might  have  known  it." 

It  seemed  a  very  hard  and  cruel  thing  to  say,  and 
Mary  Goddard  was  very  far  from  being  a  cruel  woman 
by  nature ;  but  she  was  stunned  by  fear  and  disgust 
and  horrified  by  the  possibilities  of  harm  suddenly 
brought  before  her. 

Goddard  pushed  his  plate  away  and  leaned  his 
elbows  upon  the  table  supporting  his  chin  in  his 
hands.  He  scowled  at  her  defiantly. 

"You  have  given  me  a  warm  reception,  after  nearly 
three  years  of  —  separation."  There  was  a  bitter 
sneer  in  the  word. 

"I  am  horrified  to  see  you  here,"  she  said  simply. 
"  You  know  very  well  that  I  cannot  conceal  you  —  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  expect  miracles,"  said  Goddard  con 
temptuously.  "I  don't  know  that,  when  I  came 
here,  I  expected  to  cause  you  any  particularly  agree- 


202  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

able  sensation.  I  confess,  when  a  woman  has  not 
seen  her  beloved  husband  for  three  years,  one  might 
expect  her  to  show  a  little  feeling  —  " 

"I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you,  Walter,"  said  his 
wife,  whose  unnatural  calm  was  fast  yielding  to  an 
overpowering  agitation. 

"  Then  give  me  fifty  pounds  and  tell  me  the  near 
est  way  east,"  answered  the  convict  savagely. 

"I  have  not  got  fifty  pounds  in  the  house,"  pro 
tested  Mary  Goddard,  in  some  alarm.  "  I  never  keep 
much  money  —  I  can  get  it  for  you  —  " 

"I  have  a  great  mind  to  look,"  returned  her  hus 
band  suspiciously.  "How  soon  can  you  get  it?" 

"To-morrow  night  —  the  time  to  get  a  cheque 
cashed  —  " 

"So  you  keep  a  banker's  account?" 

"  Of  course.  But  a  cheque  would  be  of  no  use  to 
you  —  I  wish  it  were !  " 

"Naturally  you  do.  You  would  get  rid  of  me  at 
once."  Suddenly  his  voice  changed.  "Oh,  Mary 
—  you  used  to  love  me!"  cried  the  wretched  man, 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"I  was  very  wrong,"  answered  his  wife,  looking 
away  from  him.  "You  did  not  deserve  it  —  you 
never  did." 

"Because  I  was  unfortunate!  " 

"Unfortunate!  "  repeated  Mary  Goddard  with  ris 
ing  scorn.  "Unfortunate  —  when  you  were  deceiv 
ing  me  every  day  of  your  life.  I  could  have  forgiven 
a  great  deal  —  Walter  —  but  not  that,  not  that!  " 

"What?  About  the  money?"  he  asked  with  sud 
den  fierceness. 

"The  money  —  no.  Even  though  you  were  dis 
graced  and  convicted,  Walter,  I  would  have  forgiven 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  203 

that,  I  would  have  tried  to  see  you,  to  comfort  you. 
I  should  have  been  sorry  for  you ;  I  would  have  done 
what  I  could  to  help  you.  But  I  could  not  forgive 
you  the  rest;  I  never  can." 

"  Bah !  I  never  cared  for  her, "  said  the  convict.  But 
under  his  livid  skin  there  rose  a  faint  blush  of  shame. 

"  You  never  cared  for  me  —  that  is  the  reason  I  — 
I  am  not  glad  to  see  you  —  " 

"  I  did,  Mary.  Upon  my  soul  I  did.  I  love  you 
still!  "  He  rose  and  came  near  to  his  wife,  and  again 
he  would  have  put  his  arm  around  her.  But  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  with  an  angry  light  in  her  eyes. 

"If  you  dare  to  touch  me,  I  will  give  you  up!" 
she  cried.  Goddard  shrank  back  to  his  chair,  very 
pale  and  trembling  violently. 

"  You  would  not  do  that,  Mary,"  he  almost  whined. 
But  she  remained  standing,  looking  at  him  very 
menacingly. 

"Indeed  I  would  —  you  don't  know  me,"  she  said, 
between  her  teeth. 

"You  are  as  hard  as  a  stone,"  he  answered,  sul 
lenly,  and  for  some  minutes  there  was  silence  between 
them. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  turn  me  out  into  the 
rain  again  ?  "  asked  the  convict. 

"You  cannot  stay  here  —  you  are  not  safe  for  a 
minute.  You  will  have  to  go.  You  must  come  back 
to-morrow  and  I  will  give  you  the  money.  You  had 
better  go  now  —  " 

"Oh,  Mary,  I  would  not  have  thought  it  of  you," 
moaned  Goddard. 

"Why  —  what  else  can  I  do?  I  cannot  let  you 
sleep  in  the  house  —  I  have  no  barn.  If  any  one  saw 
you  here  it  would  be  all  over.  People  know  about 
it—" 


204       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"What  people?" 

"The  vicar  and  his  wife  and  Mr.  Juxon  at  the 
Hall." 

"  Mr.  Juxon  ?  What  is  he  like  ?  Would  he  give 
me  up  if  he  knew  ?  " 

"I  think  he  would,"  said  Mary  Goddard,  thought 
fully.  "  I  am  almost  sure  he  would.  He  is  the  jus 
tice  of  the  peace  here  — he  would  be  bound  to." 

"Do  you  know  him?"  Goddard  thought  he  de 
tected  a  slight  nervousness  in  his  wife's  manner. 

"Very  well.     This  house  belongs  to  him." 

"Oh!  "  ejaculated  the  convict.     "I  begin  to  see." 

"Yes  —  you  see  you  had  better  go,"  said  his  wife 
innocently.  "  How  can  you  manage  to  come  here  to 
morrow?  You  cannot  go  on  without  the  money  —  " 

"  No  —  and  I  don't  mean  to,"  he  answered  roughly. 
Money  was  indeed  an  absolute  necessity  to  him. 
"  Give  me  what  you  have  got  in  the  house,  anyhow. 
You  may  think  better  of  it  to-morrow.  I  don't  trust 
people  of  your  stamp." 

Mary  Goddard  rose  without  a  word  and  left  the 
room.  When  she  was  gone  the  convict  set  himself 
to  finish  the  jug  of  ale  she  had  brought,  and  looked 
about  him.  He  saw  objects  that  reminded  him  of 
his  former  home.  He  examined  the  fork  with  which 
he  had  eaten  and  remembered  the  pattern  and  the  en 
graved  initials  as  he  turned  it  over  in  his  hand.  The 
very  table  itself  had  belonged  to  his  house  —  the  car 
pet  beneath  his  feet,  the  chair  upon  which  he  sat.  It 
all  seemed  too  unnatural  to  be  true.  That  very  night, 
that  very  hour,  he  must  go  forth  again  into  the  wild 
February  weather  and  hide  himself,  leaving  all  these 
things  behind  him ;  leaving  behind  too  his  wife,  the 
woman  he  had  so  bitterly  injured,  but  who  was  still 


A  TALE   OP  A  LONELY  PARISH.  205 

his  wife.  It  seemed  impossible.  Surely  he  might 
stay  if  he  pleased;  it  was  not  true  that  detectives 
were  on  his  track  —  it  was  all  a  dream,  since  that 
dreadful  day  when  he  had  written  that  name,  which 
was  not  his,  upon  a  piece  of  paper.  He  had  waked 
up  and  was  again  at  home.  But  he  started  as  he 
heard  a  footstep  in  the  passage,  being  now  accustomed 
to  start  at  sounds  which  suggested  pursuit;  he  started 
and  he  felt  the  wet  smock-frock,  which  was  his  dis 
guise,  clinging  to  him  as  he  moved,  and  the  reality 
of  the  present  returned  to  him  with  awful  force.  His 
wife  again  entered  the  room. 

"There  are  over  nine  pounds,"  she  said.  "It  is 
all  I  have."  She  laid  the  money  upon  the  table 
before  him  and  remained  standing.  "  You  shall  have 
the  rest  to-morrow,"  she  added. 

"Can't  I  see  Nellie?"  he  asked  suddenly.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  spoken  of  his  child.  Mrs.  God- 
dard  hesitated. 

"  No,"  she  said  at  last.  "  You  cannot  see  her  now. 
She  must  not  be  told ;  she  thinks  you  are  dead.  You 
may  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  to-morrow  —  " 

"  Well  —  it  is  better  she  should  not  know,  I  sup 
pose.  You  could  not  explain." 

"No,  Walter,  I  could  not  —  explain.  Come  later 
to-morrow  night  —  to  the  same  window.  I  will  undo 
the  shutters  and  give  you  the  money."  Mary  God- 
dard  was  almost  overcome  with  exhaustion.  It  was 
a  terrible  struggle  to  maintain  her  composure  under 
such  circumstances;  but  necessity  does  wonders. 
"Where  will  you  sleep  to-night?"  she  asked  pres 
ently.  She  pitied  the  wretch  from  her  heart,  though 
she  longed  to  see  him  leave  her  house. 

"I  will  get  into  the  stables  of  some  public-house. 


206  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

I  pass  for  a  tramp."  There  was  a  terrible  earnest 
ness  in  the  simple  statement,  which  did  more  to 
make  Mary  Goddard  realise  her  husband's  position 
than  anything  else  could  have  done.  To  people  who 
live  in  the  country  the  word  "tramp"  means  so 
much. 

"Poor  Walter!"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  softly,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  she  had  seen  him  the  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Don't  waste  your  pity  on  me,"  he  answered. 
"Let  me  be  off." 

There  was  half  a  loaf  and  some  cheese  left  upon 
the  table.  Mrs.  Goddard  put  them  together  and 
offered  them  to  him. 

"You  had  better  take  it,"  she  said.  He  took  the 
food  readily  enough  and  hid  it  under  his  frock.  He 
knew  the  value  of  it.  Then  he  got  upon  his  feet. 
He  moved  painfully,  for  the  cold  and  the  wet  had 
stiffened  his  limbs  already  weakened  with  hunger 
and  exhaustion. 

"Let  me  be  off,"  he  said  again,  and  moved  towards 
the  door.  His  wife  followed  him  in  silence.  In  the 
passage  he  paused  again. 

"Well,  Mary,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  you  for  not  giving  me  up  to  the  police." 

"You  know  very  well,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard, 
"  that  what  I  can  do  to  save  you,  I  will  do.  You 
know  that." 

"Then  do  it,  and  don't  forget  the  money.  It's 
hanging  this  time  if  I'm  caught." 

Mrs.  Goddard  uttered  a  low  cry  and  leaned  against 
the  wall. 

"  What  ?  "  she  faltered.     "  You  have  not  —  " 

"I  believe  I  killed  somebody  in  getting  away," 


A  TALE   OF   A   LOXELY  PARISH.  207 

answered  the  felon  with  a  grim  laugh.  Then,  with 
out  her  assistance,  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out 
into  the  pouring  rain.  The  door  shut  behind  him 
and  Mary  Goddard  heard  his  retreating  footsteps  on 
the  path  outside.  When  he  was  fairly  gone  she  sud 
denly  broke  down,  and  falling  upon  her  knees  in  the 
passage  beat  her  forehead  against  the  wall  in  an 
agony  of  despair. 

Murderer  —  thief,  forger  and  murderer,  too!  It 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  Even  now  he  was 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  her  house;  a  moment  ago 
he  had  been  here,  beside  her  —  there  beyond,  too,  in 
the  dining-room,  sitting  opposite  to  her  at  her  own 
table  as  he  had  sat  in  his  days  of  innocence  and 
honour  for  many  a  long  year  before  his  crime.  In 
the  sudden  necessity  of  acting,  in  the  unutterable  sur 
prise  of  finding  herself  again  face  to  face  with  him, 
she  had  been  calm ;  now  that  he  was  gone  she  felt  as 
though  she  must  go  mad.  She  asked  herself  if  this 
filthy  tramp,  this  branded  villain,  was  the  husband 
she  had  loved  and  cherished  for  years,  whose  beauty 
she  had  admired,  whose  hand  she  had  held  so  often, 
whose  lips  she  had  kissed  —  if  this  was  the  father  of 
her  lovely  child.  It  was  all  over  now.  There  was 
blood  upon  his  hands  as  well  as  other  guilt.  If  he 
were  caught  he  must  die,  or  at  the  very  least  be  im 
prisoned  for  life.  He  could  never  again  be  free  to 
come  forth  after  the  expiation  of  his  crimes  and  to 
claim  her  and  his  child.  If  he  escaped  now,  it  must 
be  to  live  in  a  distant  country  under  a  perpetual  dis 
guise.  If  he  were  caught,  the  news  of  his  capture 
would  be  in  all  the  papers,  the  news  of  his  trial  for 
murder,  the  very  details  of  his  execution.  The  Am 
broses  would  know  and  the  squire,  even  the  country 


208  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

folk,  would  perhaps  at  last  know  the  truth  about  her. 
Life  even  in  the  quiet  spot  she  had  chosen  would 
become  intolerable,  and  she  would  be  obliged  to  go 
forth  again  into  a  more  distant  exile.  She  bitterly 
repented  having  written  to  her  husband  in  his  prison 
to  tell  him  where  she  was  settled.  It  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  acquaint  the  governor  with  the 
fact,  so  that  Goddard  might  know  where  she  was 
when  his  term  expired.  She  had  never  written  but 
once,  and  he  had  perhaps  not  been  allowed  to  answer 
the  letter.  His  appearance  at  her  door  proved  that 
he  had  received  it.  Would  to  God  he  had  not,  she 
thought. 

There  were  other  things  besides  his  crime  of 
forgery  which  had  acted  far  more  powerfully  upon 
Mary  Goddard's  mind,  and  which  had  broken  for 
ever  all  ties  of  affection;  circumstances  which  had 
appeared  during  his  trial  and  which  had  shown  that 
he  had  not  only  been  unfaithful  to  those  who  trusted 
him,  but  had  been  unfaithful  to  the  wife  who  loved 
him.  That  was  what  she  could  not  forgive ;  it  was 
the  memory  of  that  which  rose  like  an  impassable 
wall  between  her  and  him,  worse  than  his  frauds, 
his  forgery,  worse  almost  than  his  murder.  He  had 
done  that  which  even  a  loving  woman  could  not 
pardon,  that  which  was  past  all  forgiveness.  That 
was  why  his  sudden  appearance  roused  no  tender 
memories,  elicited  seemingly  so  little  sympathy  from 
her.  She  was  too  good  a  woman  to  say  it,  but  she 
knew  in  her  heart  that  she  wished  him  dead,  the 
very  possibility  of  ever  seeing  him  again  gone  from 
her  life  for  ever,  no  matter  how. 

But  she  must  see  him  again,  nevertheless,  and 
to-morrow.  To-morrow,  too,  she  would  have  to 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  209 

meet  the  squire,  and  appear  to  act  and  talk  as 
though  nothing  had  happened  in  this  terrible  night. 
That  would  be  the  hardest  of  all,  perhaps;  even 
harder  than  meeting  her  husband  for  a  brief  moment 
in  order  to  give  him  the  means  of  escape.  She 
felt  that  in  helping  him  she  was  participating  in 
his  crimes,  and  yet,  she  asked  herself,  what  woman 
would  have  acted  differently?  What  woman,  even 
though  she  might  hate  her  husband  with  her  whole 
soul,  and  justly,  would  yet  be  so  hard-hearted  as  to 
refuse  him  assistance  when  he  was  flying  for  his  life  ? 
It  would  be  impossible.  She  must  help  him  at  any 
cost ;  but  it  was  hard  to  feel  that  she  must  see  the 
squire  and  behave  with  indifference,  while  her  hus 
band  was  lurking  in  the  neighbourhood,  when  a 
detective  might  at  any  moment  come  to  the  door,  and 
demand  to  search  the  house. 

These  thoughts  passed  very  quickly  through  her 
overwrought  brain,  as  she  knelt  in  the  passage; 
kneeling  because  she  felt  she  could  no  longer  stand, 
the  passionate  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  her 
small  hands  pressing  her  temples.  Then  she  strug 
gled  to  her  feet  and  dried  her  eyes,  steadying  herself 
against  the  wall  for  a  moment.  She  had  almost  for 
gotten  little  Nellie  whom  she  had  left  in  the  draw 
ing-room.  She  had  told  the  child,  when  she  went 
back  to  her,  leaving  Goddard  alone  in  the  dark,  that 
the  man  was  a  poor  starving  tramp,  but  that  she  did 
not  want  Nellie  to  see  him,  because  he  looked  so 
miserable.  She  would  give  him  something  to  eat 
and  send  him  away,  she  said,  and  meanwhile  Nellie 
should  sit  by  the  drawing-room  fire  and  wait  for  her. 
The  child  trusted  her  mother  implicitly  and  was 
completely  reassured.  Mrs.  Goddard  dried  her  eyes, 


210  A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY   PARISH. 

and  re-entered  the  room.  Nellie  was  curled  up  in  a 
big  chair  with  a  book ;  she  looked  up  quickly. 

"Why,  mamma,"  she  said,  "you  have  been  cry- 
ing!" 

"Have  I,  darling?  I  daresay  it  was  the  sight  of 
that  poor  man.  He  was  very  wretched." 

"Is  he  gone?"  asked  the  child. 

It  was  unusually  late  and  Nellie  was  beginning  to 
be  sleepy,  so  that  she  was  more  easily  quieted  than 
she  could  have  been  in  ordinary  circumstances.  It 
might  have  struck  her  as  strange  that  a  wandering 
tramp  should  know  her  mother's  Christian  name,  as 
still  more  inexplicable  that  her  mother  should  have 
been  willing  to  admit  such  a  man  at  so  late  an  hour. 
She  had  been  badly  frightened,  but  trusting  her 
mother  as  she  did,  her  terror  had  quickly  disappeared 
and  had  been  quickly  followed  by  sleepiness. 

But  Mrs.  Goddard  did  not  sleep  that  night.  She 
felt  as  though  she  could  never  sleep  again,  and  for 
many  hours  she  lay  thinking  of  the  new  element  of 
fear  which  had  so  suddenly  come  into  her  life  at  the 
very  time  when  she  believed  herself  to  be  safe  for 
many  years  to  come.  She  longed  to  know  where  her 
wretched  husband  was ;  whether  he  had  found  shelter 
for  the  night,  whether  he  was  still  free  or  whether 
he  had  even  then  fallen  into  the  hands  of  his  pur 
suers.  She  knew  that  she  could  not  have  concealed 
him  in  the  house  and  that  she  had  done  all  that  lay 
in  her  power  for  him.  But  she  started  at  every 
sound,  as  the  rain  rattled  against  the  shutters  and 
the  wind  howled  down  the  chimney. 

Walter  Goddard,  however,  was  safe  for  the  present 
and  was  even  luxuriously  lodged,  considering  his  cir 
cumstances,  for  he  was  comfortably  installed  amongst 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  211 

the  hay  in  the  barn  of  the  "  Feathers  "  inn.  He  had 
been  in  Billingsfield  since  early  in  the  afternoon  and 
had  considered  carefully  the  question  of  his  quarters 
for  the  night.  He  had  observed  from  a  distance  the 
landlord  of  the  said  inn,  and  had  boldly  offered  to  do 
a  "day's  work  for  a  night's  lodging."  He  said  he 
was  "  tramping  "  his  way  back  from  London  to  his 
home  in  Yorkshire  ;  he  knew  enough  of  the  sound  of 
the  rough  Yorkshire  dialect  to  pass  for  a  native  of 
that  county  amongst  ignorant  labourers  who  had 
never  heard  the  real  tongue.  The  landlord  of  the 
Feathers  consented  to  the  bargain  and  Goddard  was 
told  that  he  might  sleep  in  the  barn  if  he  liked,  and 
should  take  a  turn  at  cutting  chaff  the  next  day  to 
pay  for  the  convenience.  The  convict  slept  soundly; 
he  was  past  lying  awake  in  useless  fits  of  remorse, 
and  he  was  exhausted  with  his  day's  journey. 
Moreover  he  had  now  the  immediate  prospect  of 
obtaining  sufficient  money  to  carry  him  safely  out  of 
the  country,  and  once  abroad  he  felt  sure  of  baffling 
pursuit.  He  was  an  accomplished  man  and  spoke 
French  with  a  fluency  unusual  in  Englishmen;  he 
determined  to  get  across  the  channel  in  some  fishing 
craft;  he  would  then  make  his  way  to  Paris  and 
enlist  in  the  Foreign  Legion.  It  would  be  safer 
than  trying  to  go  to  America,  where  people  were 
invariably  caught  as  they  landed.  It  was  a  race  for 
life  and  death,  and  he  knew  it.  Had  he  been  able 
to  obtain  clothes,  money  and  a  disguise  in  London 
he  would  have  travelled  by  rail.  But  that  had  been 
impossible  and  it  now  seemed  a  wiser  plan  to  "  tramp  " 
it.  His  beard  was  growing  rapidly  and  would  soon 
make  a  complete  disguise.  Village  constables  are 
generally  simple  people,  easily  imposed  upon,  very 


or  THf 

,HVERS1TY  ; 

OF  J 

r.  ..  .  ~«JVt>^/^ 


212  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

different  from  London  detectives;  and  hitherto  he 
felt  sure  that  he  had  baffled  pursuit  by  the  mere  sim 
plicity  of  his  proceedings.  The  intelligent  officials 
of  Scotland  Yard  were  used  to  forgers  and  swin 
dlers  who  travelled  by  express  trains  and  crossed  to 
America  by  fashionable  steamers.  It  did  not  strike 
them  as  very  likely  that  a  man  of  Walter  Goddard's 
previous  tastes  and  habits  could  get  through  the 
country  in  the  guise  of  a  tramp.  If  he  had  been 
possessed  at  the  time  of  his  escape  of  the  money  he 
so  much  desired  he  would  probably  have  been  caught ; 
as  it  was,  he  got  away  without  difficulty,  and  at  the 
very  time  when  every  railway  station  and  every  port 
in  the  kingdom  were  being  watched  for  him,  he  was 
lurking  in  the  purlieus  of  Whitechapel,  and  then 
tramping  his  way  east  in  comparative  safety,  half 
starved,  it  is  true,  but  unmolested. 

That  he  was  disappointed  at  the  reception  his  wife 
had  given  him  did  not  prevent  him  from  sleeping 
peacefully  that  night.  One  thing  alone  disturbed 
him,  and  that  was  her  mention  of  Mr.  Juxon,  in 
whose  house,  as  she  had  told  him,  she  lived.  It  seems 
incredible  that  a  man  in  Walter  Goddard's  position, 
lost  to  every  sense  of  honour,  a  criminal  of  the  worst 
type,  who  had  deceived  his  wife  before  he  was  indicted 
for  forgery,  who  had  certainly  cared  very  little  for  her 
at  any  time,  should  now,  in  a  moment  of  supreme 
danger,  feel  a  pang  of  jealousy  on  hearing  that  his 
wife  lived  in  the  vicinity  of  the  squire  and  occupied 
a  house  belonging  to  him.  But  he  was  too  bad  him 
self  not  to  suspect  others,  especially  those  whom  he 
had  wronged,  and  the  feeling  was  mingled  with  a 
strong  curiosity  to  know  whether  this  woman,  who 
now  treated  him  so  haughtily  and  drew  back  from 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  213 

him  as  from  some  monstrous  horror,  was  as  good  as 
she  pretended  to  be.  He  said  to  himself  that  on  the 
next  day  at  dawn  he  would  slip  out  of  the  barn  and 
try  whether  he  could  not  find  some  hiding-place 
within  easy  reach  of  the  cottage,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  watch  her  dwelling  at  his  ease  throughout  the  day. 
The  plan  seemed  a  good  one.  Since  he  was  obliged 
to  wait  twenty-four  hours  in  order  to  get  the  money 
he  wanted,  he  might  as  well  employ  the  time  profit 
ably  in  observing  his  wife's  habits.  It  would  be 
long,  he  said  to  himself  with  a  bitter  sneer,  before  he 
troubled  her  again  —  he  would  just  like  to  see. 

Having  come  to  this  decision  he  drew  some  of  the 
hay  over  his  body  and  in  spite  of  cold  and  wet  was 
soon  peacefully  asleep.  But  at  early  dawn  he  awoke 
with  the  alacrity  of  a  man  who  constantly  expects  pur 
suit,  and  slipped  down  from  the  hayloft  into  the  barn. 
There  was  no  one  stirring  and  he  got  over  the  fence 
at  the  back  of  the  yard  and  skirted  the  fields  in  the 
direction  of  the  church,  finally  climbing  another  stile 
and  entering  what  he  supposed  to  be  the  park.  On 
this  side  the  back  of  the  church  ran  out  into  a  broad 
meadow,  where  the  larger  portion  of  the  ancient 
abbey  had  once  stood.  Goddard  walked  along  close 
by  the  church  walls.  He  knew  from  his  observation 
on  the  previous  afternoon  that  he  could  thus  come 
out  into  the  road  in  the  vicinity  of  the  cottage,  unless 
his  way  through  the  park  were  interrupted  by  impas 
sable  wire  fences.  The  ground  was  very  heavy  and 
he  was  sure  not  to  meet  anybody  in  the  meadows  in 
such  weather. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  looked  at  a  buttress  that 
jutted  out  from  the  church  and  for  the  existence  of 
which  there  seemed  to  be  no  ostensible  reason.  He 


214  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

examined  it  and  found  that  it  was  not  a  buttress  but 
apparently  a  half  ruined  chamber,  which  at  some 
former  period  had  been  built  upon  the  side  of  the 
abbey.  Low  down  by  the  ground  there  was  a  hole, 
where  a  few  stones  seemed  to  have  been  removed  and 
not  replaced.  Goddard  knelt  down  in  the  long  wet 
grass  and  put  in  his  head;  then  he  crept  in  on  his 
hands  and  knees  and  presently  disappeared. 

He  found  himself  in  a  room  about  ten  feet  square, 
dimly  lighted  by  a  small  window  at  the  top,  and  sur 
rounded  by  long  horizontal  niches.  The  floor,  which 
was  badly  broken  in  some  places,  was  of  stone.  God 
dard  examined  the  place  carefully.  It  was  evidently 
an  old  vault  of  the  kind  formerly  built  above  ground 
for  the  lords  of  the  manor ;  but  the  coffins,  if  there 
had  ever  been  any,  had  been  removed  elsewhere. 
Goddard  laughed  to  himself. 

"  I  might  stay  here  for  a  year,  if  I  could  get  any 
thing  to  eat,"  he  said  to  himself. 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  215 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE  squire  had  grown  used  to  the  position  in 
which  he  found  himself  after  Mary  Goddard  had  told 
him  her  story.  He  continued  his  visits  as  formerly, 
and  it  could  hardly  be  said  that  there  was  any  change 
in  his  manner  towards  her ;  there  was  no  need  of  any 
change,  for  even  at  the  time  when  he  contemplated 
making  her  his  wife  there  had  been  nothing  lover- 
like  in  his  behaviour.  He  had  been  a  friend  and  had 
treated  her  with  all  the  respect  due  to  a  lonely  lady 
who  was  his  tenant,  and  even  with  a  certain  formal 
ity  which  had  sometimes  seemed  unnecessary.  But 
though  there  was  no  apparent  alteration  in  his  mode 
of  talking,  in  his  habit  of  bringing  her  flowers  and 
books  and  of  looking  after  the  condition  of  the  cot 
tage,  both  she  and  he  were  perfectly  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  they  understood  each  other  much  better  than 
before.  They  were  united  by  the  common  bond  of  a 
common  secret  which  very  closely  concerned  one  of 
them.  Things  were  not  as  they  had  formerly  been. 
Mrs.  Goddard  no  longer  felt  that  she  had  anything  to 
hide;  the  squire  knew  that  he  no  longer  had  any 
thing  to  hope.  If  he  had  been  a  selfish  man,  if  she 
had  been  a  less  sensible  woman,  their  friendship 
might  have  ended  then  and  there.  But  Mr.  Juxon 
was  not  selfish,  and  Mary  Goddard  did  not  lack  good 
sense.  Having  ascertained  that  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  events  there  was  no  possibility  of  ever 


216  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

marrying  her,  the  squire  did  not  at  once  give  her 
over  and  go  elsewhere;  on  the  contrary  he  showed 
himself  more  desirous  than  ever  of  assisting  her  and 
amusing  her.  He  was  a  patient  man ;  his  day  might 
come  yet,  if  Goddard  died.  It  did  not  follow  that  if 
he  could  not  marry  Mrs.  Goddard  he  must  needs 
marry  some  one  else ;  for  it  was  not  a  wife  that  he 
sought,  but  the  companionship  of  this  particular 
woman  as  his  wife.  If  he  could  not  marry  he  could 
still  enjoy  at  least  a  portion  of  that  companionship, 
by  visiting  her  daily  and  talking  with  her,  and  mak 
ing  himself  a  part  of  her  life.  He  judged  things  very 
coldly  and  lost  himself  in  no  lofty  flights  of  imagina 
tion.  It  was  better  that  he  should  enjoy  what  fell  in 
his  way  in  at  least  seeing  Mrs.  Goddard  and  possess 
ing  her  friendship,  than  that  he  should  go  out  of  his 
course  in  order  to  marry  merely  for  the  sake  of  marry 
ing.  He  had  seen  so  much  of  the  active  side  of  life 
that  he  was  well  prepared  to  revel  in  the  peace  which 
had  fallen  to  his  lot.  He  cared  little  whether  he  left 
an  heir  to  the  park ;  there  were  others  of  the  name, 
and  since  the  park  had  furnished  matter  for  litigation 
during  forty  years  before  he  came  into  possession  of 
it,  it  might  supply  the  lawyers  with  fees  for  forty 
years  more  after  his  death,  for  all  he  cared.  It  would 
have  been  very  desirable  to  marry  Mrs.  Goddard  if  it 
had  been  possible,  but  since  the  thing  could  not  be 
done  at  present  it  was  best  to  submit  with  a  good 
grace.  Since  the  day  when  his  suit  had  suddenly 
come  to  grief  in  the  discovery  of  her  real  position, 
Mr.  Juxon  had  philosophically  said  to  himself  that 
he  had  perhaps  been  premature  in  making  his  pro 
posal,  and  that  it  was  as  well  that  it  could  not  have 
been  accepted;  perhaps  she  would  not  have  made  him 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  217 

a  good  wife;  perhaps  he  had  deceived  himself  in 
thinking  that  because  he  liked  her  and  desired  her 
friendship  he  really  wished  to  marry  her ;  perhaps  all 
was  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds, 
after  all  and  in  spite  of  all. 

But  these  reflections,  which  tended  to  soothe  the 
squire's  annoyance  at  the  failure  of  a  scheme  which 
he  had  contemplated  with  so  much  delight,  did  not 
prevent  him  from  feeling  the  most  sincere  sympathy 
for  Mrs.  Goddard,  nor  from  constantly  wishing  that 
he  could  devise  some  plan  for  helping  her.  She 
seemed  never  to  have  thought  of  divorcing  herself 
from  her  husband.  The  squire  was  not  sure  whether 
such  a  thing  were  possible ;  he  doubted  it,  and  prom 
ised  himself  that  he  would  get  a  lawyer's  opinion 
upon  the  matter.  He  believed  that  English  law  did 
not  grant  divorces  on  account  of  the  husband's  being 
sentenced  to  any  limited  period  of  penal  servitude. 
But  in  any  case  it  would  be  a  very  delicate  subject  to 
approach,  and  Mr.  Juxon  amused  himself  by  con 
structing  conversations  in  his  mind  which  should 
lead  up  to  this  point  without  wounding  poor  Mrs. 
Goddard's  sensibilities.  He  was  the  kindest  of  men ; 
he  would  not  for  worlds  have  said  a  word  which 
should  recall  to  her  that  memorable  day  when  she 
had  told  him  her  story.  And  yet  it  would  be  quite 
impossible  to  broach  such  a  scheme  without  going  at 
once  into  all  the  details  of  the  chief  cause  of  her  sor 
rows.  The  consequence  was  that  in  the  windings  of 
his  imagination  the  squire  found  himself  perpetually 
turning  in  a  vicious  circle;  but  since  the  exercise 
concerned  Mrs.  Goddard  and  her  welfare  it  was  not 
uncongenial.  He  founded  all  his  vague  hopes  upon 
one  expression  she  had  used.  When  in  making  his 


218       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

proposal  he  had  spoken  of  her  as  being  a  widow, 
she  had  said,  "Would  to  God  that  I  were!"  She 
had  said  it  with  such  vehemence  that  he  had  felt  sure 
that  if  she  had  indeed  been  a  widow  her  answer  to 
himself  would  have  been  favourable.  Men  easily 
retain  such  impressions  received  in  moments  of  great 
excitement,  and  found  hopes  upon  them. 

So  the  days  had  gone  by  and  the  squire  had 
thought  much  but  had  come  to  no  conclusion.  On 
the  morning  when  Walter  Goddard  crept  into  the 
disused  vault  at  the  back  of  the  church,  the  squire 
awoke  from  his  sleep  at  his  usual  early  hour.  He 
was  not  in  a  very  good  humour,  if  so  equable  a  man 
could  be  said  to  be  subject  to  such  weaknesses  as 
humours.  The  weather  was  very  depressing  —  day 
after  day  brought  only  more  rain,  more  wind,  more 
mud,  more  of  everything  disagreeable.  The  previ 
ous  evening  had  been  unusually  dull.  He  was  never 
weary  of  being  with  Mary  Goddard,  but  occasionally, 
when  the  Ambroses  were  present,  the  conversation 
became  oppressive.  Mr.  Juxori  almost  wished  that 
John  Short  would  come  back  and  cause  a  diversion. 
His  views  concerning  John  had  undergone  some 
change  since  he  had  discovered  that  nobody  could 
marry  Mrs.  Goddard  because  she  was  married  already. 
He  believed  he  could  watch  John's  efforts  to  attract 
her  attention  with  indifference  now,  or  if  without 
indifference  with  a  charitable  forbearance.  John  at 
least  would  help  to  make  conversation,  and  the  con 
versation  on  the  previous  evening  had  been  intoler 
ably  wearisome.  Almost  unconsciously,  since  the 
chief  interest  and  hope  of  his  daily  life  had  been 
removed  the  squire  began  to  long  for  a  change ;  he 
had  been  a  wanderer  by  profession  during  thirty 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       219 

years  of  his  life  and  he  was  perhaps  not  yet  old 
enough  to  settle  into  that  absolute  indifference  to 
novelty  which  seems  to  characterise  retired  sailors. 

But  as  he  brushed  his  smooth  hair  and  combed  his 
beard  that  morning,  neither  change  nor  excitement 
were  very  far  from  him.  He  looked  over  his  dress 
ing-glass  at  the  leafless  oaks  of  the  park,  at  the  grey 
sky  and  the  driving  rain  and  he  wished  something 
would  happen.  He  wished  somebody  might  die  and 
leave  a  great  library  to  be  sold,  that  he  might  indulge 
his  favourite  passion;  he  wished  he  had  somebody 
stopping  in  the  Hall  —  he  almost  decided  to  send 
and  ask  the  vicar  to  come  to  lunch  and  have  a  day 
among  the  books.  As  he  entered  the  breakfast-room 
at  precisely  half-past  eight  o'clock,  according  to  his 
wont,  the  butler  informed  him  that  Mr.  Gall,  the 
village  constable,  was  below  and  wanted  to  see  him 
after  breakfast.  He  received  the  news  in  silence  and 
sat  down  to  eat  his  breakfast  and  read  the  morning 
paper.  Gall  had  probably  come  about  some  petty 
summons,  or  to  ask  what  he  should  do  about  the 
small  boys  who  threw  stones  at  the  rooks  and  broke 
the  church  windows.  After  finishing  his  meal  and 
his  paper  in  the  leisurely  manner  peculiar  to  country 
gentlemen  who  have  nothing  to  do,  the  squire  rang 
the  bell,  sent  for  the  policeman  and  went  into  his 
study,  a  small  room  adjoining  the  library. 

Thomas  Gall,  constable,  was  a  tall  fair  man  with  a 
mild  eye  and  a  cheerful  face.  Goodwill  towards 
men  and  plentiful  good  living  had  done  their  work 
in  eradicating  from  the  good  man  all  that  stern  ele 
ment  which  might  have  been  most  useful  to  him  in 
his  career,  not  to  say  useful  to  the  State.  Each  roll 
ing  year  was  pricked  in  his  leathern  belt  with  a  new 


220       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PAEISH. 

hole  as  his  heart  grew  more  peaceful  and  his  body 
throve.  He  had  a  goodly  girth  and  weighed  full  fif 
teen  stone  in  his  uniform;  his  mild  blue  eye  had 
inspired  confidence  in  a  maiden  of  Billingsfield  par 
ish  and  Mrs.  Gall  was  now  rearing  a  numerous  family 
of  little  Galls,  all  perhaps  destined  to  become  mild- 
eyed  and  portly  village  constables  in  their  turn. 

The  squire,  who  was  not  destitute  of  a  sense  of 
humour,  never  thought  of  Mr.  Gall  without  a  smile, 
so  much  out  of  keeping  did  the  man's  occupation 
seem  with  his  jovial  humour.  Mr.  Gall,  he  said, 
was  the  kind  of  policeman  who  would  bribe  a  refrac 
tory  tramp  to  move  on  by  the  present  of  a  pint  of 
beer.  But  Gall  had  a  good  point.  He  was  very 
proud  of  his  profession,  and  in  the  exercise  of  it  he 
showed  a  discretion  which,  if  it  was  the  better  part 
of  his  valour,  argued  unlimited  natural  courage.  It 
was  a  secret  profession,  he  was  wont  to  say,  and  a 
man  who  could  not  keep  a  secret  would  never  do  for 
a  constable.  He  shrouded  his  ways  in  an  amiable 
mystery  and  walked  a  solitary  beat  on  fine  nights ; 
when  the  nights  were  not  fine  there  was  nobody  to 
see  whether  he  walked  his  beat  or  not.  Probably,  he 
faithfully  fulfilled  his  obligations ;  but  his  constitu 
tion  seemed  to  bear  exposure  to  the  weather  wonder 
fully  well.  Whether  he  ever  saw  anything  worth 
mentioning  upon  those  lonely  walks  of  his,  is  un 
certain;  at  all  events  he  never  mentioned  anything 
he  saw,  unless  it  was  in  the  secrecy  of  the  reports  he 
was  supposed  to  transmit  from  time  to  time  to  his 
superiors. 

On  the  present  occasion  as  he  entered  the  study, 
the  squire  observed  with  surprise  that  he  looked 
grave.  He  had  never  witnessed  such  a  phenomenon 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  221 

before  and  argued  that  it  was  just  possible  that  some 
thing  of  real  importance  might  have  occurred. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gall,  approaching 
the  squire  respectfully,  after  carefully  closing  the 
door  behind  him. 

"  Good  morning,  Gall.     Nothing  wrong,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  sir.  I  hope  not,  sir.  Only  a  little 
matter  of  business,  Mr.  Juxon.  In  point  of  fact,  sir, 
I  wished  to  consult  you." 

"Yes,"  said  the  squire  who  was  used  to  the  con 
stable's  method  of  circumlocution.  "Yes  —  what  is 
it?" 

"Well,  sir  —  it's  this,"  said  the  policeman,  run 
ning  his  thumb  round  the  inside  of  his  belt  as  though 
to  test  the  pressure,  and  clearing  his  throat.  "  There 
has  been  a  general  order  sent  down  to  be  on  the  look 
out,  sir.  So  I  thought  it  would  be  best  to  take  your 
opinion." 

"My  opinion,"  said  the  squire  with  great  gravity, 
"  is  that  if  you  are  directed  to  be  on  the  look-out, 
you  should  be  on  the  look-out;  by  all  means. 
What  are  you  to  be  on  the  look-out  for?" 

"In  point  of  fact,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  lowering 
his  voice,  "we  are  informed  that  a  criminal  has 
escaped  from  Portland.  I  never  heard  of  a  convict 
getting  out  of  that  strong'old  o'  the  law,  sir,  and  I 
would  like  to  have  your  opinion  upon  it." 

"But  if  you  are  informed  that  some  one  has 
escaped,"  remarked  the  squire,  "you  had  better  take 
it  for  granted  that  it  is  true." 

"  Juss  so,  sir.  But  the  circumstances  wasn't  com 
municated  to  us,  sir;  so  we  don't  know." 

Mr.  Gall  paused,  and  the  squire  smoothed  his  hair 
a  little. 


222       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"Well,  Gall,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "have  you  any  rea 
son  for  believing  that  this  escaped  convict  is  likely 
to  come  this  way?" 

"Well  sir,  there  is  some  evidence,"  answered  the 
policeman,  mysteriously.  "Leastways  what  seems 
like  evidence  to  me,  sir." 

"Of  what  kind?"  the  squire  fixed  his  quiet  eyes 
on  Mr.  Gall's  face. 

"  His  name,  sir.  The  name  of  the  convict.  There 
is  a  party  of  that  name  residin'  here." 

The  squire  suddenly  guessed  what  was  coming,  or 
at  least  a  possibility  of  it  crossed  his  mind.  If  Mr. 
Gall  had  been  a  more  observant  man  he  would  have 
seen  that  Mr.  Juxon  grew  a  shade  paler  and  changed 
one  leg  over  the  other  as  he  sat.  But  in  that  moment 
he  had  time  to  nerve  himself  for  the  worst. 

"And  what  is  the  name,  if  you  please?"  he  asked 
calmly. 

"The  name  in  the  general  orders  is  Goddard,  sir 
—  Walter  Goddard.  He  was  convicted  of  forgery 
three  years  ago,  sir,  a  regular  bad  lot.  But  discre 
tion  is  recommended  in  the  orders,  sir,  as  the  busi 
ness  is  not  wanted  to  get  into  the  papers." 

The  squire  was  ready.  If  Gall  did  not  know  that 
Mary  Goddard  was  the  wife  of  the  convict  Walter, 
he  should  certainly  not  find  it  out.  In  any  other 
country  of  Europe  that  would  have  been  the  first  fact 
communicated  to  the  local  police.  Very  likely, 
thought  Mr.  Juxon,  nobody  knew  it. 

"I  do  not  see,"  he  said  very  slowly,  "that  the  fact 
of  there  being  a  Mrs.  Goddard  residing  here  in  the 
least  proves  that  she  is  any  relation  to  this  criminal. 
The  name  is  not  so  uncommon  as  that,  you  know." 

"Nor  I  either,  sir.     In  point  of  fact,  sir,  1  was 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  223 

only  thinking.     It's  what  you  may  call  a  striking 
coincidence,  that's  all." 

"  It  would  have  been  a  still  more  striking  coinci 
dence  if  his  name  had  been  Juxon  like  mine,  or 
Ambrose  like  the  vicar's,"  said  the  squire  calmly. 
"  There  are  other  people  of  the  name  in  England,  and 
the  local  policemen  will  be  warned  to  be  on  the  look 
out.  If  this  fellow  was  called  Juxon  instead  of  God- 
dard,  Gall,  would  you  be  inclined  to  think  he  was  a 
relation  of  mine?" 

"Oh  no,  sir.  Ha!  ha!  Very  good  sir!  Very 
good  indeed!  No  indeed,  sir,  and  she  such  a  real 
lady  too!" 

"  Well  then,  I  do  not  see  that  you  can  do  anything 
more  than  keep  a  sharp  look-out.  I  suppose  they  sent 
you  some  kind  of  description  ?  " 

"Well,  yes.  There  was  a  kind  of  a  description 
as  you  say,  sir,  but  I'm  not  anyways  sure  of  recog 
nising  the  party  by  it.  In  point  of  fact,  sir,  the 
description  says  the  convict  is  a  fair  man." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Neither  particular  tall,  nor  yet  particular  short, 
sir.  Not  a  very  big  'tin  nor  a  very  little  'un,  sir. 
In  point  of  fact,  sir,  a  fair  man.  Clean  shaved  and 
close  cropped  he  is,  sir,  being  a  criminal." 

"I  hope  you  may  recognise  him  by  that  account," 
said  the  squire,  suppressing  a  smile.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  I  should." 

"Well,  sir,  it  does  say  as  he's  a  fair  man,"  re 
marked  the  constable. 

"Supposing  he  blacked  his  face  and  passed  for  a 
chimney-sweep?"  suggested  the  squire.  The  idea 
seemed  to  unsettle  Gall's  views. 

"In  that  case,  sir,  I  don't  know  as  I  should  know 
him,  for  certain,"  he  answered. 


224  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"Probably  not  —  probably  not,  Gall.  And  judg 
ing  from  the  account  they  have  sent  you  I  don't 
think  you  would  be  to  blame." 

"Leastways  it  can't  be  said  as  I've  failed  to  carry 
out  superior  instructions,"  replied  Mr.  Gall,  proudly. 
"Then  it's  your  opinion,  sir,  that  I'd  better  keep  a 
sharp  look-out  ?  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  so,  sir  ?  " 

"Quite  so,"  returned  the  squire  with  great  calm 
ness.  "  By  all  means  keep  a  sharp  look-out,  and  be 
careful  to  be  discreet,  as  the  orders  instruct  you." 

"You  may  trust  me  for  that,  sir,"  said  the  police 
man,  who  dearly  loved  the  idea  of  mysterious  impor 
tance.  "Then  I  wish  you  good  morning,  sir."  He 
prepared  to  go. 

"  Good  morning,  Gall  —  good  morning.  The  but 
ler  will  give  you  some  ale." 

Again  Mr.  Gall  passed  his  thumb  round  the  inside 
of  his  belt,  testing  the  local  pressure  in  anticipation 
of  a  pint.  He  made  a  sort  of  half-military  salute  at 
the  door  and  went  out.  When  the  squire  was  alone 
he  rose  from  his  chair  and  paced  the  room,  giving 
way  to  the  agitation  he  had  concealed  in  the  presence 
of  the  constable.  He  was  very  much  disturbed  at 
the  news  of  Goddard's  escape,  as  well  he  might  be. 
Not  that  he  was  aware  that  the  convict  knew  of  his 
wife's  whereabouts;  he  did  not  even  suppose  that 
Goddard  could  ascertain  for  some  time  where  she  was 
living,  still  less  that  he  would  boldly  present  himself 
in  Billingsfield.  But  it  was  bad  enough  to  know 
that  the  man  was  again  at  large.  So  long  as  he  was 
safely  lodged  in  prison,  Mrs.  Goddard  was  herself 
safe ;  but  if  once  he  regained  his  liberty  and  baffled 
the  police  he  would  certainly  end  by  finding  out 
Mary's  address  and  there  was  no  telling  to  what 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  225 

annoyance,  to  what  danger,  to  what  sufferings  she 
might  be  exposed.  Here  was  a  new  interest,  indeed, 
and  one  which  promised  to  afford  the  squire  occupa 
tion  until  the  fellow  was  caught. 

Mr.  Juxon  knew  that  he  was  right  in  putting  the 
policeman  off  the  track  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Goddard. 
He  himself  was  a  better  detective  than  Gall,  for  he 
went  daily  to  the  cottage  and  if  anything  was  wrong 
there,  was  quite  sure  to  discover  it.  If  Goddard 
ever  made  his  way  to  Billingsfield  it  could  only  be 
for  the  purpose  of  seeing  his  wife,  and  if  he  succeeded 
in  this,  Mrs.  Goddard  could  not  conceal  it  from  the 
squire.  She  was  a  nervous  woman  who  could  not 
hide  her  emotions ;  she  would  find  herself  in  a  terri 
ble  difficulty  and  she  would  perhaps  turn  to  her 
friend  for  assistance.  If  Mr.  Juxon  could  lay  his 
hands  on  Goddard,  he  flattered  himself  he  was  much 
more  able  to  arrest  a  desperate  man  than  mild-eyed 
Policeman  Gall.  He  had  not  been  at  sea  for  thirty 
years  in  vain,  and  in  his  time  he  had  handled  many 
a  rough  customer.  He  debated  however  upon  the 
course  he  should  pursue.  As  in  his  opinion  it  was 
unlikely  that  Goddard  would  find  out  his  wife  for 
some  time,  and  improbable  that  he  would  waste  such 
precious  time  in  looking  for  her,  it  seemed  far  from 
advisable  to  warn  her  that  the  felon  had  escaped. 
On  the  other  hand  he  mistrusted  his  own  judgment ; 
if  she  were  not  prepared  it  was  just  possible  that  the 
man  should  come  upon  her  unawares,  and  the  shock 
of  seeing  him  might  be  very  much  worse  than  the 
shock  of  being  told  that  he  was  at  large.  He  might 
consult  the  vicar. 

At  first,  the  old  feeling  that  it  would  be  disloyal 
to  Mrs.  Goddard  even  to  hint  to  Mr.  Ambrose  that 


226  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

he  was  acquainted  with  her  story  withheld  him  from 
pursuing  such  a  course.  But  as  he  turned  the  matter 
over  in  his  mind  it  seemed  to  him  that  since  it  was 
directly  for  her  good,  he  would  now  be  justified  in 
speaking.  He  liked  the  vicar  and  he  trusted  him. 
He  knew  that  the  vicar  had  been  a  good  friend  to 
Mrs.  Goddard  and  that  he  would  stand  by  her  in  any 
difficulty  so  far  as  he  might  be  able.  The  real  ques 
tion  was  how  to  make  sure  that  the  vicar  should  not 
tell  his  wife.  If  Mrs.  Ambrose  had  the  least  suspi 
cion  that  anything  unusual  was  occurring,  she  would 
naturally  try  and  extract  information  from  her  hus 
band,  and  she  would  probably  be  successful ;  women, 
the  squire  thought,  very  generally  succeed  in  opera 
tions  of  that  kind.  But  if  once  Mr.  Ambrose  could 
be  consulted  without  arousing  his  wife's  suspicions, 
he  was  a  man  to  be  trusted.  Thereupon  Mr.  Juxon 
wrote  a  note  to  the  vicar,  saying  that  he  had  some 
thing  of  great  interest  to  show  him,  and  begging 
that,  if  not  otherwise  engaged,  he  would  come  up  to 
the  Hall  to  lunch.  When  he  had  despatched  his 
messenger,  being  a  man  of  his  word,  he  went  into 
the  library  to  hunt  for  some  rare  volume  or  manu 
script  which  the  vicar  had  not  yet  seen,  and  which 
might  account  in  a  spirit  of  rigid  veracity  for  the 
excuse  he  had  given.  Meanwhile,  as  he  turned  over 
his  rare  and  curious  folios  he  debated  further  upon 
his  conduct;  but  having  once  made  up  his  mind  to 
consult  Mr.  Ambrose,  he  determined  to  tell  him 
boldly  what  had  occurred,  after  receiving  from  him  a 
promise  of  secrecy.  The  messenger  brought  back 
word  that  the  vicar  would  be  delighted  to  come,  and 
at  the  hour  named  the  sound  of  wheels  upon  the 
gravel  announced  the  arrival  of  Strawberry,  the  old 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  227 

mare,  drawing  behind  her  the  vicar  and  his  aged 
henchman,  Reynolds,  in  the  traditional  vicarage  dog 
cart.  A  moment  later  the  vicar  entered  the  library. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ambrose,"  said 
the  squire  in  hospitable  tones.  "I  have  something 
to  show  you  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 
The  two  shook  hands  heartily.  Independently  of 
kindred  scholarly  tastes,  they  were  sympathetic  to 
each  other  and  were  always  glad  to  meet. 

"It  is  just  the  weather  for  bookworms,"  answered 
the  vicar  in  cheerful  tones.  "Dear  me,  I  never  come 
here  without  envying  you  and  wishing  that  life  were 
one  long  rainy  afternoon." 

"  You  know  I  am  inclined  to  think  I  am  rather  an 
enviable  person,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  slowly  passing  his 
hand  over  his  glossy  hair  and  leading  his  guest  tow 
ards  a  large  table  near  the  fire.  Several  volumes  lay 
together  upon  the  polished  mahogany.  The  squire 
laid  his  hand  on  one  of  them. 

"I  have  not  deceived  you,"  he  said.  "That  is  a 
very  interesting  volume.  It  is  the  black  letter 
Paracelsus  I  once  spoke  of.  I  have  succeeded  in 
getting  it  at  last." 

"  Dear  me !  What  a  piece  of  fortune !  "  said  Mr. 
Ambrose  bending  down  until  his  formidable  nose 
almost  touched  the  ancient  page. 

"Yes,"  said  the  squire,  "uncommonly  lucky  as 
usual.  Now,  excuse  my  abruptness  in  changing  the 
subject  —  I  want  to  consult  you  upon  an  important 
matter." 

The  vicar  looked  up  quickly  with  that  vague,  far 
away  expression  which  comes  into  the  eyes  of  a 
student  when  he  is  suddenly  called  away  from  con 
templating  some  object  of  absorbing  interest. 


228  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  "certainly  —  a  —  by  all 
means." 

"It  is  about  Mrs.  Goddard,"  said  the  squire,  look 
ing  hard  at  his  visitor.  "  Of  course  it  is  between 
ourselves,"  he  added. 

The  vicar's  long  upper  lip  descended  upon  its  fel 
low  and  he  bent  his  rough  grey  eyebrows,  returning 
Mr.  Juxon 's  sharp  look  with  interest.  He  could  not 
imagine  what  the  squire  could  have  to  say  about 
Mrs.  Goddard,  unless,  like  poor  John,  he  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her  and  wanted  to  marry  her;  which 
appeared  improbable. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said  sharply. 

"  I  daresay  you  do  not  know  that  I  am  acquainted 
with  her  story,"  began  Mr.  Juxon.  "Do  not  be  sur 
prised.  She  saw  fit  to  tell  it  me  herself." 

"Indeed?"  exclaimed  the  vicar  in  considerable 
astonishment.  In  that  case,  he  argued  quickly,  Mr. 
Juxon  was  not  thinking  of  marrying  her. 

"Yes  —  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  into  that,"  said 
Mr.  Juxon  quickly.  "  The  thing  I  want  to  tell  you 
is  this  —  Goddard  the  forger  has  escaped  —  " 

"  Escaped ?  "  echoed  the  vicar  in  real  alarm.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  so!  " 

"Gall  the  constable  came  here  this  morning,"  con 
tinued  Mr.  Juxon.  "He  told  me  that  there  were 
general  orders  out  for  his  arrest." 

"How  in  the  world  did  he  get  out?"  cried  the 
vicar.  "  I  thought  nobod}^  was  ever  known  to  escape 
from  Portland!" 

"  So  did  I.  But  this  fellow  has  —  somehow.  Gall 
did  not  know.  Now,  the  question  is,  what  is  to  be 
done?" 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  vicar, 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       229 

thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  marching  to 
the  window,  the  wide  skirts  of  his  coat  seeming  to 
wave  with  agitation  as  he  walked. 

Mr.  Juxon  also  put  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  but 
he  stood  still  upon  the  hearth-rug  and  looked  at  the 
ceiling,  softly  whistling  a  little  tune,  a  habit  he  had 
in  moments  of  great  anxiety.  For  three  or  four 
minutes  neither  of  the  two  spoke. 

"  Would  you  tell  Mrs.  Goddard  — or  not?"  asked 
Mr.  Juxon  at  last. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  vicar.  "I  am  amazed 
beyond  measure."  He  turned  and  slowly  came  back 
to  the  table. 

"I  don't  know  either,"  replied  the  squire.  "  That 
is  precisely  the  point  upon  which  I  think  we  ought 
to  decide.  I  have  known  about  the  story  for  some 
time,  but  I  did  not  anticipate  that  it  would  take  this 
turn." 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose  after  another  pause, 
"  I  think  that  if  there  is  any  likelihood  of  the  fellow 
finding  her  out,  we  ought  to  tell  her.  If  not  I  think 
we  had  better  wait  until  he  is  caught.  He  is  sure 
to  be  caught,  of  course." 

"I  entirely  agree  with  you,"  returned  Mr.  Juxon. 
"  Only  —  how  on  earth  are  we  to  find  out  whether  he 
is  likely  to  come  here  or  not?  If  any  one  knows 
where  he  is,  he  is  as  good  as  caught  already.  If  no 
body  knows,  we  can  certainly  have  no  means  of 
telling." 

The  argument  was  unanswerable.  Again  there 
was  a  long  silence.  The  vicar  walked  about  the 
room  in  great  perplexity. 

"  Dear  me !  Dear  me !  What  a  terrible  business  I  " 
he  repeated,  over  and  over  again. 


230  A   TALE   OF   A    LONELY  PARISH. 

"Do  you  think  we  are  called  upon  to  do  any 
thing?"  he  asked  at  last,  stopping  in  his  walk 
immediately  in  front  of  Mr.  Juxon. 

"If  we  can  do  anything  to  save  Mrs.  Goddard  from 
annoyance  or  further  trouble,  we  are  undoubtedly 
called  upon  to  do  it,"  replied  the  squire.  "If  that 
wretch  finds  her  out,  he  will  try  to  break  into  the 
cottage  at  night  and  force  her  to  give  him  money." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  Dear  me !  I  hope  he 
will  do  no  such  thing!  " 

"So  do  I,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  with  a  grim 
smile.  "  But  if  he  finds  her  out,  he  will.  I  almost 
think  it  would  be  better  to  tell  her  in  any  case." 

"  But  think  of  the  anxiety  she  will  be  in  until  he 
is  caught!"  cried  the  vicar.  "She  will  be  expect 
ing  him  ever}r  day  —  every  night.  Well  —  I  suppose 
we  might  tell  Gall  to  watch  the  house." 

"That  will  not  do,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  firmly.  "It 
would  be  a  great  injustice  to  allow  Gall  or  any  of  the 
people  in  the  village  to  know  anything  about  her. 
She  might  be  subjected  to  all  kinds  of  insult.  You 
know  what  these  people  are.  A  4  real  lady, '  who  is 
at  the  same  time  the  wife  of  a  convict,  is  a  thing  they 
can  hardly  understand.  I  am  sure  both  you  and  I 
secretly  flatter  ourselves  that  we  have  shown  an  un 
usual  amount  of  good  sense  and  generosity  in  under 
standing  her  position  as  we  do." 

"I  daresay  we  do,"  said  the  vicar  with  a  smile. 
He  was  too  honest  to  deny  it.  "  Indeed  it  took  me 
some  time  to  get  used  to  the  idea  myself." 

"  Precisely.  The  village  people  would  never  get 
used  to  it.  Of  all  things  to  do,  we  should  certainly 
not  tell  Gall,  who  is  an  old  woman  and  a  great  chat 
terbox.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  his  statement 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  231 

this  morning — it  filled  me  with  admiration  for  the 
local  police,  I  assure  you.  But  —  I  think  it  would 
be  better  to  tell  her.  I  did  not  think  so  before  you 
came,  I  believe.  But  talking  always  brings  the 
truth  out." 

The  vicar  hesitated,  rising  and  falling  upon  his 
toes  and  heels  in  profound  thought,  after  his  manner. 

"I  daresay  you  are  right,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Will 
you  do  it?  Or  shall  I?" 

"I  would  rather  not,"  said  the  squire,  thought 
fully.  "  You  know  her  better,  you  have  known  her 
much  longer  than  I." 

"  But  she  will  ask  me  where  I  heard  of  it,"  objected 
the  vicar.  "  I  shall  be  obliged  to  say  that  you  told 
me.  That  will  be  as  bad  as  though  you  told  her 
yourself." 

"  You  need  not  say  you  heard  it  from  me.  You 
can  say  that  Gall  has  received  instructions  to  look 
out  for  Goddard.  She  will  not  question  you  any 
further,  I  am  sure." 

"I  would  much  rather  that  you  told  her,  Mr. 
Juxon,"  said  the  vicar. 

"  I  would  much  rather  that  you  told  her,  Mr.  Am 
brose,"  said  the  squire,  almost  in  the  same  breath. 
Both  laughed  a  little. 

"Not  that  I  would  not  do  it  at  once,  if  necessary," 
added  Mr.  Juxon. 

"Or  I,  in  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"Of  course,"  returned  Mr.  Juxon.  "Only  it  is 
such  a  very  delicate  matter,  you  see." 

"Dear  me,  yes,"  murmured  the  vicar,  "a  most 
delicate  matter.  Poor  lady!  " 

"  Poor  lady!  "  echoed  the  squire.  " But  I  suppose 
it  must  be  done." 


232  A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  Oh  yes  — we  cannot  do  otherwise,"  answered  Mr. 
Ambrose,  still  hoping  that  his  companion  would 
volunteer  to  perform  the  disagreeable  office. 

"  Well  then,  will  you  —  will  you  do  it  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Juxon,  anxious  to  have  the  matter  decided. 

"Why  not  go  together?"  suggested  the  vicar. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  firmly.  "It  would  be  an 
intolerable  ordeal  for  the  poor  woman.  I  think  I 
see  your  objection.  Perhaps  you  think  that  Mrs. 
Ambrose  —  " 

"Exactly,  Mrs.  Ambrose,"  echoed  the  vicar  with 
a  grim  smile. 

"  Oh  precisely  —  then  I  will  do  it,"  said  the  squire. 
And  he  forthwith  did,  and  was  very  much  surprised 
at  the  result. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       233 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Mr.  Juxon  walked 
down  towards  the  cottage,  accompanied  by  the  vicar. 
In  spite  of  their  mutual  anxiety  to  be  of  service  to 
Mrs.  Goddard,  when  they  had  once  decided  how  to 
act  they  had  easily  fallen  into  conversation  about 
other  matters,  the  black  letter  Paracelsus  had  re 
ceived  its  full  share  of  attention  and  many  another 
rare  volume  had  been  brought  out  and  examined. 
Neither  the  vicar  nor  his  host  believed  that  there  was 
any  hurry ;  if  Goddard  ever  succeeded  in  getting  to 
Billingsfield  it  would  not  be  to-day,  nor  to-morrow 
either. 

The  weather  had  suddenly  changed;  the  east  was 
already  clear  and  over  the  west,  where  the  sun  was 
setting  in  a  fiery  mist,  the  huge  clouds  were  banked 
up  against  the  bright  sky,  fringed  with  red  and  pur 
ple,  but  no  longer  threatening  rain  or  snow.  The 
air  was  sharp  and  the  plentiful  mud  in  the  roads  was 
already  crusted  with  a  brittle  casing  of  ice. 

The  squire  took  leave  of  Mr.  Ambrose  at  the  turn 
ing  where  the  road  led  into  the  village  and  then 
walked  back  to  the  cottage.  Even  his  solid  nerves 
were  a  little  unsettled  at  the  prospect  of  the  inter 
view  before  him;  but  he  kept  a  stout  heart  and  asked 
for  Mrs.  Goddard  in  his  usual  quiet  voice.  Martha 
told  him  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  a  bad  headache,  but 
on  inquiry  found  that  she  would  see  the  squire.  He 


234  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

entered  the  drawing-room  softly  and  went  forward  to 
greet  her ;  she  was  sitting  in  a  deep  chair  propped  by 
cushions. 

Mary  Goddard  had  spent  a  miserable  day.  The 
grey  morning  light  seemed  to  reveal  her  troubles  and 
fears  in  a  new  and  more  terrible  aspect.  During  the 
long  hours  of  darkness  it  seemed  as  though  those 
things  were  mercifully  hidden  which  the  strong  glare 
of  day  must  inevitably  reveal,  and  when  the  night 
was  fairly  past  she  thought  all  the  world  must  surely 
know  that  Walter  Goddard  had  escaped  and  that  his 
wife  had  seen  him.  Hourly  she  expected  a  ringing 
at  the  bell,  announcing  the  visit  of  a  party  of  detec 
tives  on  his  track;  every  sound  startled  her  and  her 
nerves  were  strung  to  such  a  pitch  that  she  heard 
with  supernatural  acuteness.  She  had  indeed  two 
separate  causes  for  fear.  The  one  was  due  to  her 
anxiety  for  Goddard 's  safety;  the  other  to  her  appre 
hensions  for  Nellie.  She  had  long  determined  that 
at  all  hazards  the  child  must  be  kept  from  the  knowl 
edge  of  her  father's  disgrace,  by  being  made  to  believe 
in  his  death.  It  was  a  falsehood  indeed,  but  such  a 
falsehood  as  may  surely  be  forgiven  to  a  woman  as 
unhappy  as  Mary  Goddard.  It  seemed  monstrous 
that  the  innocent  child,  who  seemed  not  even  to  have 
inherited  her  father's  looks  or  temper,  should  be 
brought  up  with  the  perpetual  sense  of  her  disgrace 
before  her,  should  be  forced  to  listen  to  explanations 
of  her  father's  crimes  and  tutored  to  the  comprehen 
sion  of  an  inherited  shame.  From  the  first  Mary 
Goddard  had  concealed  the  whole  matter  from  the 
little  girl,  and  when  Walter  was  at  last  convicted, 
she  had  told  her  that  her  father  was  dead.  Dead  he 
might  be,  she  thought,  before  twelve  years  were  out, 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  235 

and  Nellie  would  be  none  the  wiser.  In  twelve  years 
from  the  time  of  his  conviction  Nellie  would  be  in 
her  twenty-first  year ;  if  it  were  ever  necessary  to  tell 
her,  it  would  be  time  enough  then,  for  the  girl  would 
have  at  least  enjoyed  her  youth,  free  of  care  and  of 
the  horrible  consciousness  of  a  great  crime  hang 
ing  over  her  head.  No  child  could  grow  up  in  such 
a  state  as  that  implied.  No  mind  could  develop 
healthily  under  the  perpetual  pressure  of  so  hideous 
a  secret ;  from  her  earliest  childhood  her  impressions 
would  be  warped,  her  imagination  darkened  and  her 
mental  growth  stunted.  It  would  be  a  great  cruelty 
to  tell  her  the  truth;  it  was  a  great  mercy  to  tell  her 
the  falsehood.  It  was  no  selfish  timidity  which  had 
prompted  Mary  Goddard,  but  a  carefully  weighed 
consideration  for  the  welfare  of  her  child. 

If  now,  within  these  twenty-four  hours,  Nellie 
should  discover  who  the  poor  tramp  was,  who  had 
frightened  her  so  much  on  the  previous  evening,  all 
this  would  be  at  an  end.  The  child's  life  would  be 
made  desolate  for  ever.  She  would  never  recover 
from  the  shock,  and  to  injure  lovely  Nellie  so  bitterly 
would  be  worse  to  Mary  Goddard  than  to  be  obliged 
to  bear  the  sharpest  suffering  herself.  For,  from  the 
day  when  she  had  waked  to  a  comprehension  of  her 
husband's  baseness,  the  love  for  her  child  had  taken 
in  her  breast  the  place  of  the  love  for  Walter. 

She  did  not  think  connectedly ;  she  did  not  realise 
her  fears ;  she  was  almost  wholly  unstrung.  But  she 
had  procured  the  fifty  pounds  her  husband  required 
and  she  waited  for  the  night  with  a  dull  hope  that 
all  might  yet  be  well  —  as  wTell  as  anything  so  horri 
ble  could  be.  If  only  her  husband  were  not  caught 
in  Billingsfield  it  would  not  be  so  bad,  perhaps. 


236  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

And  yet  it  may  be  that  her  wisest  course  would 
have  been  to  betray  him  that  very  night.  Many  just 
men  would  have  said  so;  but  there  are  few  women 
who  would  do  it.  There  are  few  indeed,  so  stony 
hearted  as  to  betray  a  man  once  loved  in  such  a  case ; 
and  Mary  Goddard  in  her  wildest  fear  never  dreamed 
of  giving  up  the  fugitive.  She  sat  all  day  in  her 
chair,  wishing  that  the  day  were  over,  praying  that 
she  might  be  spared  any  further  suffering  or  that  at 
least  it  might  be  spared  to  her  child  whom  she  so 
loved.  She  had  sent  Nellie  down  to  the  vicarage 
with  Martha.  Mrs.  Ambrose  loved  Nellie  better 
than  she  loved  Nellie's  mother,  and  there  was  a 
standing  invitation  for  her  to  spend  the  afternoons  at 
the  vicarage.  Nellie  said  her  mother  had  a  terrible 
headache  and  wanted  to  be  alone. 

But  when  the  squire  came  Mrs.  Goddard  thought 
it  wiser  to  see  him.  She  had,  of  course,  no  inten 
tion  of  confiding  to  him  an  account  of  the  events  of 
the  previous  night,  but  she  felt  that  if  she  could  talk 
to  him  for  half  an  hour  she  would  be  stronger.  He 
was  himself  so  strong  and  honest  that  he  inspired 
her  with  courage.  She  knew,  also,  that  if  she  were 
driven  to  the  extremity  of  confiding  in  any  one  she 
would  choose  Mr.  Juxon  rather  than  Mr.  Ambrose. 
The  vicar  had  been  her  first  friend  and  she  owed  him 
much ;  but  the  squire  had  won  her  confidence  by  his 
noble  generosity  after  she  had  told  him  her  story. 
She  said  to  herself  that  he  was  more  of  a  man 
than  the  vicar.  And  now  he  had  come  to  her  at 
the  time  of  her  greatest  distress,  and  she  was  glad 
to  see  him. 

Mr.  Juxon  entered  the  room  softly,  feeling  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  a  sick  person.  Mrs.  Goddard 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  237 

turned  her  pathetic  face  towards  him  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  trying  to 
seem  cheerful. 

"I  fear  you  are  ill,  Mrs.  Goddard,"  answered  the 
squire,  looking  at  her  anxiously  and  then  seating 
himself  by  her  side.  "Martha  told  me  you  had  a 
headache  —  I  hope  it  is  not  serious." 

"Oh  no — not  serious.  Only  a  headache,"  she 
said  with  a  smile  so  unlike  her  own  that  Mr.  Juxon 
began  to  feel  nervous.  His  resolution  to  tell  her  his 
errand  began  to  waver ;  it  seemed  cruel,  he  thought, 
to  disturb  a  person  who  was  evidently  so  ill  with  a 
matter  so  serious.  He  remembered  that  she  had 
almost  fainted  on  a  previous  occasion  when  she  had 
spoken  to  him  of  her  husband.  She  had  not  been  ill 
then;  there  was  no  knowing  what  the  effect  of  a 
shock  to  her  nerves  might  be  at  present.  He  sat 
still  in  silence  for  some  moments,  twisting  his  hat 
upon  his  knee. 

"Do  not  be  disturbed  about  me,"  said  Mrs.  God 
dard  presently.  "  It  will  pass  very  quickly.  I  shall 
be  quite  well  to-morrow  —  I  hope,"  she  added  with 
a  shudder. 

"I  am  very  much  disturbed  about  you,"  returned 
Mr.  Juxon  in  an  unusually  grave  tone.  Mrs.  God 
dard  looked  at  him  quickly,  and  was  surprised  when 
she  saw  the  expression  on  his  face.  He  looked  sad, 
and  at  the  same  time  perplexed. 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  be !  "  she  exclaimed  as  though 
deprecating  further  remark  upon  her  ill  health. 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  said  the  squire  with  some  hesi 
tation,  "whether  —  whether  you  are  really  very  ill. 
I  mean,  of  course,  I  know  you  have  a  bad  headache, 


238  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

a  very  bad  headache,  as  I  can  see.   But  —  indeed,  Mrs. 
Goddard,  I  have  something  of  importance  to  say." 

"Something  of  importance?"  she  repeated,  star 
ing  hard  at  him. 

"Yes  —  but  it  will  keep  till  to-morrow,  if  you 
would  rather  not  hear  it  now,"  he  replied,  looking 
at  her  doubtfully. 

"I  would  rather  hear  it  now,"  she  answered  after 
some  seconds  of  silence.  Her  heart  beat  fast. 

"  You  were  good  enough  some  time  ago  to  tell  me 
about  —  Mr.  Goddard,"  began  Mr.  Juxon  in  woful 
trepidation. 

"Yes,"  answered  his  companion  under  her  breath. 
Her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  together  upon  her 
knees  and  her  eyes  sought  the  squire's  anxiously  and 
then  looked  away  again  in  fear. 

"Well,  it  is  about  him,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon  in 
a  gentle  voice.  "  Would  you  rather  put  it  off  ?  It 
is  —  well,  rather  startling." 

Mrs.  Goddard  closed  her  eyes,  like  a  person  ex 
pecting  to  suffer  some  terrible  pain.  She  thought 
Mr.  Juxon  was  going  to  tell  her  that  Walter  had 
been  captured  in  the  village. 

"Mr.  Goddard  has  escaped,"  said  the  squire,  mak 
ing  a  bold  plunge  with  the  whole  truth.  The  sick 
lady  trembled  violently,  and  unclasping  her  hands 
laid  them  upon  the  arms  of  her  chair  as  though  to 
steady  herself  to  bear  the  worse  shock  to  come.  But 
Mr.  Juxon  was  silent.  He  had  told  her  all  he  knew. 

"Yes,"  she  said  faintly.  "Is  there  anything  — 
anything  more  ?  "  Her  voice  was  barely  audible  in 
the  still  and  dusky  room. 

"  No  —  except  that,  of  course,  there  are  orders  out 
for  his  arrest,  all  over  the  country." 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       239 

"  He  has  not  been  arrested  yet?  "  asked  Mrs.  God- 
dard.  She  had  expected  to  hear  that  he  was  caught ; 
she  thought  the  squire  was  trying  to  break  the  shock 
of  the  news.  Her  courage  rose  a  little  now. 

"  No,  he  is  not  arrested  —  but  I  have  no  doubt  he 
soon  will  be,"  added  Mr.  Juxon  in  a  tone  intended 
to  convey  encouragement. 

"  How  did  you  hear  this  ?  " 

"  Gall  the  policeman,  told  me  this  morning.  I  — 
I  am  afraid  I  have  something  else  to  confess  to  you, 
Mrs.  Goddard,  I  trust  you  will  not —  " 

"What?"  she  asked  so  suddenly  as  to  startle  him. 
Walter  might  have  been  heard  of  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  perhaps. 

"I  think  I  was  right,"  continued  Mr.  Juxon.  "I 
hope  you  will  forgive  me.  It  does  not  seem  quite 
loyal,  but  I  did  not  know  wrhat  to  do.  I  consulted 
the  vicar  as  to  whether  we  should  tell  you." 

"The  vicar?  What  did  he  say?"  Again  Mrs. 
Goddard  felt  relieved. 

"He  quite  agreed  with  me,"  answered  the  squire. 
"  You  see  we  feared  that  Mr.  Goddard  might  find  his 
way  here  and  come  upon  you  suddenly.  We  thought 
you  would  be  terribly  pained  and  startled." 

Mrs.  Goddard  could  almost  have  laughed  at  that 
moment.  The  excellent  man  had  taken  all  this  trou 
ble  in  order  to  save  her  from  the  very  thing  which 
had  already  occurred  on  the  previous  night.  There 
was  a  bitter  humour  in  the  situation,  in  the  squire's 
kind-hearted  way  of  breaking  to  her  that  news  which 
she  already  knew  so  well,  in  his  willingness  to  put 
off  telling  her  until  the  morrow.  What  would  Mr. 
Juxon  say,  could  he  guess  that  she  had  herself  already 
spoken  with  her  husband  and  had  promised  to  see 


240  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

him  again  that  very  night !  Forgetting  that  his  last 
words  required  an  answer,  she  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  again  folded  her  hands  before  her.  Her 
eyes  were  half  closed  and  from  beneath  the  drooping 
lids  she  gazed  through  the  gathering  gloom  at  the 
squire's  anxious  face. 

"I  hope  you  think  I  did  right,"  said  the  latter  in 
considerable  doubt. 

"  Quite  right.  I  think  you  were  both  very  kind  to 
think  of  me  as  you  did,"  said  she. 

"I  am  sure,  I  always  think  of  you,"  answered  Mr. 
Juxon  simply.  "  I  hope  that  this  thing  will  have  no 
further  consequences.  Of  course,  until  we  know  of 
Mr.  Goddard's  whereabouts  we  shall  feel  very  anx 
ious.  It  seems  probable  that  if  he  can  get  here  unob 
served  he  will  do  so.  He  will  probably  ask  you  for 
some  money." 

" Do  you  really  think  he  could  get  here  at  all?" 
asked  Mrs.  Goddard.  She  wanted  to  hear  what  he 
would  say,  for  she  thought  she  might  judge  from  his 
words  whether  her  husband  ran  any  great  risk. 

"Oh  no,"  replied  the  squire.  "I  think  it  is  very 
improbable.  I  fear  this  news  has  sadly  disturbed 
you,  Mrs.  Goddard,  but  let  us  hope  all  may  turn  out 
for  the  best."  Indeed  he  thought  she  showed  very 
little  surprise,  though  she  had  evidently  been  much 
moved.  Perhaps  she  had  been  accustomed  to  expect 
that  her  husband  might  one  day  escape.  She  was  ill, 
too,  and  her  nerves  were  unstrung,  he  supposed. 

She  had  really  passed  through  a  very  violent  emo 
tion,  but  it  had  not  been  caused  by  her  surprise,  but 
by  her  momentary  fear  for  the  fugitive,  instantly 
allayed  by  Mr.  Juxon's  explanation.  She  felt  that 
for  to-day  at  least  Walter  was  safe,  and  by  to-morrow 


A  TALE  OF  A   LOXELY  PARISH.  241 

he  would  be  safe  out  of  the  neighbourhood.  But  she 
reflected  that  it  was  necessary  to  say  something;  that 
if  she  appeared  to  receive  the  news  too  indifferently 
the  squire's  suspicions  might  be  aroused  with  fatal 
results. 

"It  is  a  terrible  thing,"  she  said  presently.  "You 
see  I  am  not  at  all  myself. " 

It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  act  a  part.  The  words 
were  commonplace. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "I  see  you  are  not."  He 
on  his  part,  instead  of  looking  for  a  stronger  expres 
sion  of  fear  or  astonishment,  was  now  only  too  glad 
that  she  should  be  so  calm. 

"  Would  you  advise  me  to  do  anything?  "  she  asked 
presently. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  done,"  he  answered 
quickly,  glad  of  a  chance  to  relieve  the  embarrass 
ment  of  the  situation.  "  Of  course  we  might  put  you 
under  the  protection  of  the  police  but  —  what  is  the 
matter,  Mrs.  Goddard?"  She  had  started  as  though 
in  pain. 

"  Only  this  dreadful  headache,"  she  said.  "  Go  on 
please." 

"  Well,  we  might  set  Gall  the  policeman  to  watch 
your  house ;  but  that  would  be  very  unpleasant  for 
you.  It  would  be  like  telling  him  and  all  the  vil 
lage  people  of  your  situation  —  " 

"Oh  don't!  "Please  don't!" 

"No,  certainly  not.  I  think  it  very  unwise. 
Besides  —  "  he  stopped  short.  He  was  about  to  say 
that  he  felt  much  better  able  to  watch  over  Mrs. 
Goddard  himself  than  Gall  the  constable  could  possi 
bly  be ;  but  he  checked  himself  in  time- 

"  Besides  —  what  ?  "  she  asked. 


242  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"Nothing  —  Gall  is  not  much  of  a  policeman,  that 
is  all.  I  do  not  believe  you  would  be  any  the  safer 
for  his  protection.  But  you  must  promise  me,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Goddard,  that  if  anything  occurs  you  will 
let  me  know.  I  may  be  of  some  assistance." 

"Thank  you,  so  much,"  said  she.  "You  are 
always  so  kind!  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  very  glad  if  you  think  I  was 
right  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"Oh,  quite  right,"  she  answered.  "And  now, 
Mr.  Juxon,  I  am  really  not  at  all  well.  All  this  has 
quite  unnerved  me  —  " 

"You  want  me  to  go?"  said  the  squire  smiling 
kindly  as  he  rose.  "Yes,  I  understand.  Well, 
good-bye,  my  dear  friend  —  I  hope  everything  will 
clear  up." 

"Good-bye.  Thank  you  again.  You  always  do 
understand  me,"  she  answered  giving  him  her  small 
cold  hand.  "  Don't  think  me  ungrateful,"  she  added, 
looking  up  into  his  eyes. 

"No  indeed  —  not  that  there  is  anything  to  be 
grateful  for." 

In  a  moment  more  he  was  gone,  feeling  that  he 
had  done  his  duty  like  a  man,  and  that  it  had  not 
been  so  hard  after  all.  He  was  glad  it  was  done, 
however,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  face  the  vicar 
with  a  bold  front  at  their  next  meeting.  He  went 
quickly  down  the  path  and  crossed  the  road  to  his 
own  gate  with  a  light  step.  As  he  entered  the  park 
he  was  not  aware  of  a  wretched-looking  tramp  who 
slouched  along  the  quickset  hedge  and  watched  his 
retreating  figure  far  up  the  avenue,  till  he  was  out  of 
sight  among  the  leafless  trees.  If  Stamboul  had  been 
with  the  squire  the  tramp  would  certainly  not  have 


A   TALE    OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  248 

passed  unnoticed;  but  for  some  days  the  roads  had 
been  so  muddy  that  Stamboul  had  been  left  behind 
when  Mr.  Juxon  made  his  visits  to  the  cottage,  lest 
the  great  hound  should  track  the  mud  into  the  spot 
less  precincts  of  the  passage.  The  tramp  stood  still 
and  looked  after  the  squire  so  long  as  he  could  see 
him,  and  then  slunk  off  across  the  wet  meadows, 
where  the  standing  water  was  now  skimmed  with  ice. 
Walter  Goddard  had  spent  the  day  in  watching  for 
the  squire  and  he  had  seen  him  at  last.  He  had  seen 
him  go  down  the  road  with  the  vicar  till  they  were 
both  out  of  sight,  and  he  had  seen  him  come  back  and 
enter  the  cottage.  This  proceeding,  he  argued,  be 
trayed  that  the  squire  did  not  wish  to  be  seen  going 
into  Mary's  house  by  the  vicar.  The  tortuous  intel 
ligences  of  bad  men  easily  impute  to  others  courses 
which  they  themselves  would  naturally  pursue. 
Three  words  on  the  previous  evening  had  sufficed  to 
rouse  the  convict's  jealousy.  What  he  saw  to-day 
confirmed  his  suspicions.  The  gentleman  in  knicker 
bockers  could  be  no  other  than  the  squire  himself,  of 
course.  He  was  evidently  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
Mary  Goddard  and  he  did  not  wish  his  visits  to  be 
observed  by  the  clergyman,  who  was  of  course  the 
vicar  or  rector  of  the  parish.  That  proved  conclu 
sively  in  the  fugitive's  mind  that  there  was  some 
thing  wrong.  He  ground  his  teeth  together  and  said 
to  himself  that  it  would  be  worth  while  to  run  some 
risk  in  order  to  stop  that  little  game,  as  he  expressed 
it.  He  had,  as  he  himself  had  confessed  to  his  wife, 
murdered  one  man  in  escaping ;  a  man,  he  reflected, 
could  only  hang  once,  and  if  he  had  »ot  been  taken 
in  the  streets  of  London  he  was  not  likely  to  be 
caught  in  the  high  street  of  Billingsfield,  Essex.  It 


244       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

would  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  knock  the  squire  on 
the  head  before  he  went  any  farther.  Moreover  he 
had  found  a  wonderfully  safe  retreat  in  the  disused 
vault  at  the  back  of  the  church.  He  discovered  loose 
stones  inside  the  place  which  he  could  pile  up 
against  the  low  hole  which  served  for  an  entrance. 
Probably  no  one  knew  that  there  was  any  entrance 
at  all  —  the  very  existence  of  the  vault  was  most 
likely  forgotten.  It  was  not  a  cheerful  place,  but 
Goddard's  nerves  were  excited  to  a  pitch  far  beyond 
the  reach  of  supernatural  fears.  Whatever  he  might 
be  condemned  to  feel  in  the  future,  his  conscience 
troubled  him  very  little  in  the  present.  The  vault 
was  comparatively  dry  and  was  in  every  way  prefer 
able,  as  a  resting-place  for  one  night,  to  the  interior 
of  a  mouldy  haystack  in  the  open  fields.  He  did  not 
dare  show  himself  again  at  the  "  Feathers  "  inn,  lest 
he  should  be  held  to  do  the  day's  work  he  had  prom 
ised  in  payment  for  his  night  in  the  barn.  All  that 
morning  and  afternoon  he  had  lain  hidden  in  the 
quickset  hedge  near  the  park  gate,  within  sight  of 
the  cottage,  and  he  had  been  rewarded.  The  food  he 
had  taken  with  him  the  night  before  had  sufficed  him 
and  he  had  quenched  his  thirst  with  rain-water  from 
the  ditch.  Having  seen  that  the  squire  went  back 
towards  the  Hall,  Goddard  slunk  away  to  his  hiding- 
place  to  wait  for  the  night.  He  lay  down  as  best  he 
might,  and  listened  for  the  hours  and  half-hours  as 
the  church  clock  tolled  them  out  from  the  lofty  tower 
above. 

Mary  Goddard  had  told  him  to  come  later  than 
before,  and  it  was  after  half-past  ten  when  he  tapped 
upon  the  shutter  of  the  little  drawing-room.  All 
was  dark  within,  and  he  held  his  breath  as  he  stood 


A  TALE   OF  A   LONELY  PARISH.  245 

among  the  wet  creepers,  listening  intently  for  the 
sound  of  his  wife's  coming.  Presently  the  glass 
window  inside  was  opened. 

"  Is  that  you  ?  "  asked  Mary's  voice  in  a  tremulous 
whisper. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Let  me  in."  Then  the 
shutter  was  cautiously  unfastened  and  opened  a  little 
and  in  the  dim  starlight  Goddard  recognised  his 
wife's  pale  face.  Her  hand  went  out  to  him,  with 
something  in  it. 

"There  is  the  money,"  she  whispered.  "Go  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  They  are  looking  for  you  — 
there  are  orders  out  to  arrest  you." 

Goddard  seized  her  fingers  and  took  the  money. 
She  would  have  withdrawn  her  hand  but  he  held  it 
firmly. 

"Who  told  you  that  they  were  after  me?"  he 
asked  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

"Mr.  Juxon  —  let  me  go." 

"  Mr.  Juxon !  "  The  convict  uttered  a  rough  oath. 
"  Your  friend  Mr.  Juxon,  eh  ?  He  is  after  me,  is  he  ? 
Tell  him  — " 

"  Hush,  hush !  "  she  whispered.  "  He  has  no  idea 
you  are  here  —  " 

"I  should  think  not,"  muttered  Walter.  "He 
would  not  be  sneaking  in  here  on  the  sly  to  see  you 
if  he  knew  I  were  about!  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mary.  "Oh, 
Walter,  let  me  go  —  you  hurt  me  so!  "  He  held  her 
fingers  as  in  a  vice. 

"  Hurt  you !  I  wish  I  could  strangle  you  and  him 
too!  Ha,  you  thought  I  was  not  looking  this  after 
noon  when  he  came !  He  went  to  the  corner  of  the 
road  with  the  parson,  and  when  the  parson  was  out 
of  sight  he  came  back!  I  saw  you!  " 


246  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"You  saw  nothing!"  answered  his  wife  desper 
ately.  "How  can  you  say  so!  If  you  knew  how 
kind  he  has  been,  what  a  loyal  gentleman  he  is,  you 
would  not  dare  to  say  such  things." 

"You  used  to  say  I  was  a  loyal  gentleman,  Mary," 
retorted  the  convict.  "I  daresay  he  is  of  the  same 
stamp  as  I.  Look  here,  Mary,  if  I  catch  this  loyal 
gentleman  coming  here  any  more  I  will  cut  his 
throat  —  so  look  out!  " 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  remain 
here  any  longer,  in  danger  of  your  life?"  said  Mary 
in  great  alarm. 

"Well  —  a  man  can  only  hang  once.  Give  me 
some  more  of  that  bread  and  cheese,  Mary.  It  was 
exceedingly  good." 

"Then  let  me  go,"  said  his  wife,  trembling  with 
horror  at  the  threat  she  had  just  heard. 

"  Oh  yes.  I  will  let  you  go.  But  I  will  just  hold 
the  window  open  in  case  you  don't  come  back  soon 
enough.  Look  sharp !  " 

There  was  no  need  to  hurry  the  unfortunate 
woman.  In  less  than  three  minutes  she  returned, 
bringing  a  "  quartern "  loaf  and  a  large  piece  of 
cheese.  She  thrust  them  out  upon  the  window-sill 
and  withdrew  her  hand  before  he  could  catch  it. 
But  he  held  the  window  open. 

"Now  go!  "  she  said.  "I  cannot  do  more  for  you 
—  for  God's  sake  go!  " 

"You  seem  very  anxious  to  see  the  last  of  me,"  he 
whispered.  "  I  daresay  if  I  am  hanged  you  will  get 
a  ticket  to  see  me  turned  off.  Yes  —  we  mention 
those  things  rather  freely  up  in  town.  Don't  be 
alarmed.  I  will  come  back  to-morrow  night  —  you 
had  better  listen.  If  you  had  shown  a  little  more 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  247 

heart,  I  would  have  been  satisfied,  but  you  are  so 
stony  that  I  think  I  would  like  another  fifty  pounds 
to-morrow  night.  Those  notes  are  so  deliciously 
crisp  —  " 

"Listen,  Walter!"  said  Mary.  "Unless  you 
promise  to  go  I  will  raise  an  alarm  at  once.  I  can 
face  shame  again  well  enough.  I  will  have  you  — 
hush !  For  God's  sake  —  hush !  There  is  somebody 
coming !  " 

The  convict's  quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound. 
Instantly  he  knelt  and  then  lay  down  at  full  length 
upon  the  ground  below  the  window.  It  was  a  fine 
night  and  the  conscientious  Mr.  Gall  was  walking 
his  beat.  The  steady  tramp  of  his  heavy  shoes  had 
something  ominous  in  it  which  struck  terror  into 
the  heart  of  the  wretched  fugitive.  With  measured 
tread  he  came  from  the  direction  of  the  village. 
Reaching  the  cottage  he  paused  and  dimly  in  the 
starlight  Mrs.  Goddard  could  distinguish  his  glazed 
hat  —  the  provincial  constabulary  still  wore  hats  iii 
those  days.  Mr.  Gall  stood  not  fifteen  yards  from 
the  cottage,  failed  to  observe  that  a  window  was 
open  on  the  lower  floor,  nodded  to  himself  as  though 
satisfied  with  his  inspection  and  walked  on.  Little 
by  little  the  sound  of  his  steps  grew  fainter  in  the 
distance.  Walter  slowly  raised  himself  again  from 
the  ground,  and  put  his  head  in  at  the  window. 

"  You  see  it  would  not  be  hard  to  have  you  caught," 
whispered  his  wife,  still  breathless  with  the  pass 
ing  excitement.  "That  was  the  policeman.  If  I 
had  called  him,  it  would  have  been  all  over  with 
you.  I  tell  you  if  you  try  to  come  again  I  will  give 
you  up." 

" Oh,  that's  the  way  you  treat  me,  is  it?"  said  the 


248  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

convict  with  another  oath.  "Then  you  had  better 
look  out  for  your  dear  Mr.  Juxon,  that's  all." 

Without  another  word,  Goddard  glided  away  from 
the  window,  let  himself  out  by  the  wicket  gate  and 
disappeared  across  the  road. 

Mary  Goddard  was  in  that  moment  less  horrified 
by  her  husband's  threat  than  by  his  base  ingratitude 
to  herself  and  by  the  accusation  he  seemed  to  make 
against  her.  Worn  out  with  the  emotions  of  fear 
and  anxiety,  she  had  barely  the  strength  to  close  and 
fasten  the  window.  Then  she  sank  into  the  first 
chair  she  could  find  in  the  dark  and  stared  into  the 
blackness  around  her.  It  seemed  indeed  more  than 
she  could  bear.  She  was  placed  in  the  terrible  posi 
tion  of  being  obliged  to  betray  her  fugitive  husband, 
or  of  living  in  constant  fear  lest  he  should  murder 
the  best  friend  she  had  in  the  world. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  249 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ON  the  morning  after  the  events  last  described 
Mr.  Ambrose  sat  at  breakfast  opposite  his  wife.  The 
early  post  had  just  arrived,  bringing  the  usual  news 
paper  and  two  letters. 

"  Any  news,  my  dear  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Ambrose 
with  great  suavity,  as  she  rinsed  her  teacup  in  the 
bowl  preparatory  to  repeating  the  dose.  "  Is  not  it 
time  that  we  should  hear  from  John  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  letter  from  him,  strange  to  say.  Wait 
a  minute  —  my  dear,  the  Tripos  is  over  and  he  wants 
to  know  if  he  may  stop  here  —  " 

"The  Tripos  over  already!  How  has  he  done? 
Do  tell  me,  Augustin  I  " 

"He  does  not  know,"  returned  the  vicar,  quickly 
looking  over  the  contents  of  the  letter.  "  The  lists 
are  not  out  —  he  thinks  he  has  done  very  well  —  he 
has  had  a  hint  that  he  is  high  up  —  wants  to  know 
whether  he  may  stop  on  his  way  to  London  —  he  is 
going  to  see  his  father  —  " 

"Of  course  he  shall  come,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose 
with  enthusiasm.  "  He  must  stop  here  till  the  lists 
are  published  and  then  we  shall  know  —  anything 
else?" 

"  The  other  is  a  note  from  a  tutor  of  his  side  —  my 
old  friend  Brown  —  he  is  very  enthusiastic ;  says  it 
is  an  open  secret  that  John  will  be  at  the  head  of 


250  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

the  list  —  begins  to  congratulate.  Well,  my  dear, 
this  is  very  satisfactory,  very  flattering." 

"  One  might  say  very  delightful,  Augustin." 

"Delightful,  yes  quite  delightful,"  replied  the 
vicar,  burying  his  long  nose  in  his  teacup. 

"  I  only  hope  it  may  be  true.  I  was  afraid  that 
perhaps  John  had  done  himself  harm  by  coming  here 
at  Christmas.  Young  men  are  so  very  light-headed, 
are  they  not,  Augustin  ?  "  added  Mrs.  Ambrose  with 
a  prim  smile.  On  rare  occasions  she  had  alluded  to 
John's  unfortunate  passion  for  Mrs.  Goddard,  and 
when  she  spoke  of  the  subject  she  had  a  tendency  to 
assume  something  of  the  stiffness  she  affected  towards 
strangers.  As  has  been  seen  she  had  ceased  to  blame 
Mrs.  Goddard.  Generally  speaking  the  absent  are 
in  the  wrong  in  such  matters ;  she  could  not  refer  to 
John's  conduct  without  a  touch  of  severity.  But 
the  Reverend  Augustin  bent  his  shaggy  brows ;  John 
was  now  successful,  probably  senior  classic — it  was 
evidently  no  time  to  censure  his  behaviour. 

"  You  must  be  charitable,  my  dear,"  he  said,  look 
ing  sharply  at  his  wife.  "  We  have  all  been  young 
once  you  know." 

"  Augustin,  I  am  surprised  at  you ! "  said  Mrs. 
Ambrose  sternly. 

"  For  saying  that  I  once  was  young  ?  "  inquired  her 
husband.  "  Strange  and  paradoxical  as  such  a  state 
ment  must  appear,  I  was  once  a  baby." 

"  I  think  your  merriment  very  unseemly,"  objected 
Mrs.  Ambrose  in  a  tone  of  censure.  "  Because  you 
were  once  a  baby  it  does  not  follow  that  you  ever 
acted  in  such  a  very  foolish  way  about  a — " 

"  My  dear,"  interrupted  the  vicar,  handing  his  cup 
across  the  table,  "  I  wish  you  would  leave  John  alone, 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  251 

and  give  me  another  cup  of  tea.  John  will  be  here 
to-morrow.  Let  us  receive  him  as  we  should.  He 
has  done  us  credit." 

"  He  will  never  be  received  otherwise  in  this  house, 
Augustin,"  replied  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "whether  you 
allow  me  to  speak  my  mind  or  not.  I  am  aware  that 
Short  has  done  us  credit,  as  you  express  it.  I  only 
hope  he  always  may  do  us  credit  in  the  future.  I 
am  sure,  I  was  like  a  mother  to  him.  He  ought 
never  to  forget  it.  Why,  my  dear,  cannot  you  re 
member  how  I  always  had  his  buttons  looked  to  and 
gave  him  globules  when  he  wanted  them  ?  I  think 
he  might  show  some  gratitude." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  has  failed  to  show  it,"  retorted 
the  vicar. 

"  Oh,  well,  Augustin,  if  you  are  going  to  talk  like 
that  it  is  not  possible  to  argue  with  you;  but  he 
shall  be  welcome,  if  he  comes.  I  hope,  however,  that 
he  will  not  go  to  the  cottage  —  " 

"  My  dear,  I  have  a  funeral  this  morning.  I  wish 
you  would  not  disturb  my  mind  with  these  trifles." 

"  Trifles  !     Who  is  dead?     You  did  not  tell  me." 

"Poor  Judd's  baby,  of  course.  We  have  spoken 
of  it  often  enough,  I  am  sure." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course.  Poor  Tom  Judd  !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Ambrose  with  genuine  sympathy.  "It  seems 
to  me  you  are  always  burying  his  babies,  Augustin ! 
It  is  very  sad." 

"  Not  always,  my  dear.  Frequently,"  said  the 
vicar  correcting  her.  "It  is  very  sad,  as  you  say. 
Very  sad.  You  took  so  much  trouble  to  help  them 
this  time,  too." 

"  Trouble ! "  Mrs.  Ambrose  cast  up  her  eyes. 
"  You  don't  know  how  much  trouble.  But  I  am  quite 


252  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

sure  it  was  the  fault  of  that  brazen-faced  doctor.  I 
cannot  bear  the  sight  of  him  !  That  comes  of  answer 
ing  advertisements  in  the  newspapers." 

The  present  doctor  had  bought  the  practice  aban 
doned  by  Mrs.  Ambrose's  son-in-law.  He  had  paid 
well  for  it,  but  his  religious  principles  had  not  formed 
a  part  of  the  bargain. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  cry  over  spilt  milk,  my  dear." 

"I  do  not  mean  to.  No,  I  never  do.  But  it  is 
very  unpleasant  to  have  such  people  about.  I  really 
hope  Tom  Judd  will  not  lose  his  next  baby.  When 
is  John  coming?" 

"  To-morrow.  My  dear,  if  I  forget  it  this  morning, 
will  you  remember  to  speak  to  Reynolds  about  the 
calf?" 

"  Certainly,  Augustin,"  said  his  wife.  Therewith 
the  good  vicar  left  her  and  went  to  bury  Tom  Judd's 
baby,  divided  in  his  mind  between  rejoicing  over  his 
favourite  pupil's  success  and  lamenting,  as  he  sin 
cerely  did,  the  misfortunes  which  befell  his  parish 
ioners.  When  he  left  the  churchyard  an  hour  later 
he  was  met  by  Martha,  who  came  from  the  cottage 
with  a  message  begging  that  the  vicar  would  come  to 
Mrs.  Goddard  as  soon  as  possible.  Martha  believed 
her  mistress  was  ill,  she  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Ambrose 
at  once.  Without  returning  to  the  vicarage  he  turned 
to  the  left  towards  the  cottage. 

Mrs.  Goddard  had  slept  that  night,  being  exhausted 
and  almost  broken  down  with  fatigue.  But  she  woke 
only  to  a  sense  of  the  utmost  pain  and  distress,  realis 
ing  that  to-day's  anxiety  was  harder  to  bear  than  yes 
terday's,  and  that  to-morrow  might  bring  forth  even 
worse  disasters  than  those  which  had  gone  before. 
Her  position  was  one  of  extreme  doubt  and  peril.  To 


A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  253 

tell  any  one  that  her  husband  was  in  the  neighbour 
hood  seemed  to  be  equivalent  to  rooting  out  the  very 
last  remnant  of  consideration  for  him  which  remained 
in  her  heart,  the  very  last  trace  of  what  had  once 
been  the  chief  joy  and  delight  of  her  life.  She  hesi 
tated  long.  There  is  perhaps  nothing  in  human 
nature  more  enduring  than  the  love  of  man  and 
wife ;  or  perhaps  one  should  rather  say  than  the  love 
of  a  woman  for  her  husband.  There  appear  to  be 
some  men  capable  of  being  so  completely  estranged 
from  their  wives  that  there  positively  does  not  remain 
in  them  even  the  faintest  recollection  of  what  they 
have  once  felt,  nor  the  possibility  of  feeling  the  least 
pity  for  what  the  women  they  once  loved  so  well  may 
suffer.  There  is  no  woman,  I  believe,  who  having 
once  loved  her  husband  truly,  could  see  him  in  pain 
or  distress,  or  in  danger  of  his  life,  without  earnestly 
endeavouring  to  help  him.  A  woman  may  cease  to 
love  her  husband ;  in  some  cases  she  is  right  in  for 
getting  her  love,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  case 
where,  were  he  the  worst  criminal  alive,  had  he 
deceived  her  a  thousand  times,  she  would  not  at  least 
help  him  to  escape  from  his  pursuers  or  give  him  a 
crust  to  save  him  from  starvation. 

Mary  Goddard  had  done  her  best  for  the  wretch 
who  had  claimed  her  assistance.  She  had  fed  him, 
provided  him  with  money,  refused  to  betray  him. 
But  if  it  were  to  be  a  question  of  giving  him  up  to 
the  law,  or  of  allowing  her  best  friend  to  be  mur 
dered  by  him,  or  even  seriously  injured,  she  felt  that 
pity  must  be  at  an  end.  It  would  be  doubtless  a  very 
horrible  thing  to  give  him  up,  and  she  had  gathered 
from  what  he  had  said  that  if  he  were  taken  he  would 
pay  the  last  penalty  of  the  law.  It  was  so  awful  a 


254  A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

thing  that  she  groaned  when  she  thought  of  it.  But 
she  remembered  his  ghastly  face  in  the  starlight  and 
the  threat  he  had  hissed  out  against  the  squire ;  he 
was  a  desperate  man,  with  blood  already  on  his  hands. 
It  was  more  than  likely  that  he  would  do  the  deed  he 
had  threatened  to  do.  What  could  be  easier  than  to 
watch  the  squire  011  one  of  those  evenings  when  he 
went  up  the  park  alone,  to  fall  upon  him  and  take 
his  life  ?  Of  late  Mr.  Juxon  did  not  even  take  his 
dog  with  him.  The  savage  bloodhound  would  be  a 
good  protector ;  but  even  when  he  took  Stamboul 
with  him  by  day,  he  never  brought  him  at  night.  It 
was  too  long  for  the  beast  to  wait,  he  used  to  say, 
from  six  to  nine  or  half  past ;  he  was  so  savage  that 
he  did  not  care  to  leave  him  out  of  his  sight;  he 
brought  mud  into  the  cottage,  or  into  the  vicarage  as 
the  case  might  be  —  if  Stamboul  had  been  an  ordi 
nary  dog  it  would  have  been  different.  Those  Rus 
sian  bloodhounds  were  not  to  be  trifled  with.  But 
the  squire  must  be  warned  of  his  danger  before  an 
other  night  came  on. 

It  was  a  difficult  question.  Mrs.  Goddard  at  first 
thought  of  telling  him  herself ;  but  she  shrank  from 
the  thought,  for  she  was  exhausted  and  overwrought. 
A  few  days  ago  she  would  have  been  brave  enough  to 
say  anything  if  necessary,  but  now  she  had  no  longer 
the  courage  nor  the  strength.  It  seemed  so  hard  to 
face  the  squire  with  such  a  warning ;  it  seemed  as 
though  she  were  doing  something  which  would  make 
her  seem  ungrateful  in  his  eyes,  though  she  hardly 
knew  why  it  seemed  so.  She  turned  more  naturally 
to  the  vicar,  to  whom  she  had  originally  come  in  her 
first  great  distress  ;  she  had  only  once  consulted  him, 
but  that  one  occasion  seemed  to  establish  a  prece- 


A   TALE    OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  255 

dent  in  her  mind,  the  precedent  of  a  thing  familiar. 
It  would  certainly  be  easier.  After  much  thought 
and  inward  debate,  she  determined  to  send  for  Mr. 
Ambrose. 

The  fatigue  and  anxiety  she  had  undergone  during 
the  last  two  days  had  wrought  great  changes  in  her 
face.  A  girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty  years  may  gain 
delicacy  and  even  beauty  from  the  physical  effects  of 
grief,  but  a  woman  over  thirty  years  old  gains  neither. 
Mrs.  Goddard's  complexion,  naturally  pale,  had  taken 
a  livid  hue  ;  her  lips,  which  were  never  very  red,  were 
almost  white ;  heavy  purple  shadows  darkened  her 
eyes  ;  the  two  or  three  lines  that  were  hardly  notice 
able,  but  which  were  the  natural  result  of  a  sad  ex 
pression  in  her  face,  had  in  two  days  become  distinctly 
visible  and  had  almost  assumed  the  proportions  of 
veritable  wrinkles.  Her  features  were  drawn  and 
pinched  —  she  looked  ten  years  older  than  she  was. 
Nothing  remained  of  her  beauty  but  her  soft  waving 
brown  hair  and  her  deep,  pathetic,  violet  eyes.  Even 
her  small  hands  seemed  to  have  grown  thin  and  looked 
unnaturally  white  and  transparent. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  favourite  chair  by  the  fire, 
when  the  vicar  arrived.  She  had  not  been  willing  to 
seem  ill,  in  spite  of  what  Martha  had  said,  and  she 
had  refused  to  put  cushions  in  the  chair.  She  was 
making  an  effort,  and  even  a  little  sense  of  physical 
discomfort  helped  to  make  the  effort  seem  easier.  She 
was  so  much  exhausted  that  she  felt  she  must  not  for 
one  moment  relax  the  tension  she  imposed  upon  her 
self  lest  her  whole  remaining  strength  should  suddenly 
collapse  and  leave  her  at  the  mercy  of  events.  But 
Mr.  Ambrose  was  startled  when  he  saw  her  and  feared 
that  she  was  very  ill. 


256  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PAEISH. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Goddard,"  he  said,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  Has  anything  happened  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  he  changed  the  form  of  his  question, 
suddenly  recollecting  that  Mr.  Juxon  had  probably 
on  the  previous  afternoon  told  her  of  her  husband's 
escape,  as  he  had  meant  to  do.  This  might  be  the 
cause  of  her  indisposition. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  did  not  sound  like 
her  own,  "  I  have  asked  you  to  come  because  I  am  in 
great  trouble  —  in  desperate  trouble." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  vicar,  "  I  hope  not ! " 

"Not  desperate?  Perhaps  not.  Dear  Mr.  Ambrose, 
you  have  always  been  so  kind  to  me  —  I  am  sure  you 
can  help  me  now."  Her  voice  trembled. 

"  Indeed  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  the  vicar  who 
judged  from  so  unusual  an  outburst  that  there  must 
be  really  something  wrong.  "If  you  could  tell  me 
what  it  is  —  "  he  suggested. 

"  That  is  the  hardest  part  of  it,"  said  the  unhappy 
woman.  She  paused  a  moment  as  though  to  collect 
her  strength.  "  You  know,"  she  began  again,  "  that 
my  husband  has  escaped  ?  " 

"  A  terrible  business ! "  exclaimed  the  good  man, 
nodding,  however,  in  affirmation  to  the  question  she 
asked. 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  said  Mary  Goddard  very  faintly, 
looking  down  at  her  thin  hands.  The  vicar  started 
in  astonishment. 

"  My  dear  friend  —  dear  me  !  Dear,  dear,  how 
very  painful ! " 

"  Indeed,  you  do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered. 
It  is  most  dreadful,  Mr.  Ambrose.  You  cannot  im 
agine  what  a  struggle  it  was.  I  am  quite  worn  out." 

She  spoke  with  such  evident  pain  that  the  vicar  was 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PAEISH.  257 

moved.  He  felt  that  she  had  more  to  tell,  but  he 
had  hardly  recovered  from  his  surprise. 

"But,  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  was  the  whole 
object  of  warning  you.  We  did  not  really  believe 
that  he  would  come  here.  We  were  so  much  afraid 
that  he  would  startle  you.  Of  course  Mr.  Juxon  told 
you  he  consulted  me  —  " 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  It  was 
too  late.  I  had  seen  him  the  night  before." 

"  Why,  that  was  the  very  night  we  were  here ! " 
exclaimed  Mr.  Ambrose,  more  and  more  amazed. 
Mrs.  Goddard  nodded.  She  seemed  hardly  able  to 
speak. 

"  He  came  and  knocked  at  that  window,"  she  said, 
very  faintly.  "  He  came  again  last  night." 

"  Dear  me  —  I  will  send  for  Gall  at  once ;  he  will 
have  no  difficulty  in  arresting  him  —  " 

"  Oh  please ! "  interrupted  Mrs.  Goddard  in  hys 
terical  tones.  "Please,  please,  dear  Mr.  Ambrose, 
don't!" 

The  vicar  was  silent.  He  rose  unceremoniously 
from  his  chair  and  walked  to  the  window,  as  he  gener 
ally  did  when  in  any  great  doubt.  He  realised  at 
once  and  very  vividly  the  awful  position  in  which  the 
poor  lady  was  placed. 

"Pray  do  not  think  I  am  very  bad,9'  said  she, 
almost  sobbing  with  fear  and  emotion.  "  Of  course  it 
must  seem  dreadful  to  you  that  I  should  wish  him  to 
escape ! " 

The  vicar  came  slowly  back  and  stood  beside  her 
leaning  against  the  chimney-piece.  It  did  not  take 
him  long  to  make  up  his  mind.  Kind-hearted  people 
are  generally  impulsive. 

"I  do  not,  my  dear  lady.     I  assure  you  I   fully 


258  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

understand  your  position.  The  fact  is,  I  was  too 
much  surprised  and  I  am  too  anxious  for  your  safety 
not  to  think  immediately  of  securing  that  —  ahem  — 
that  unfortunate  man." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  my  safety !  It  is  not  only  my 
safety  —  " 

"  I  understand  —  yes  —  of  course  you  are  anxious 
about  him.  But  it  is  doubtless  not  our  business  to 
aid  the  law  in  its  course,  provided  we  do  not  oppose 
it." 

"  It  is  something  else,"  murmured  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"  Oh  !  how  shall  I  tell  you,"  she  moaned  turning  her 
pale  cheek  to  the  back  of  the  chair. 

The  vicar  looked  at  her  and  began  to  think  it  was 
perhaps  some  strange  case  of  conscience  with  which 
he  had  to  deal.  He  had  very  little  experience  of  such 
things  save  in  the  rude  form  they  take  among  the 
labouring  classes.  But  he  reflected  that  it  was  likely 
to  be  something  of  the  kind;  in  such  a  case  Mrs. 
Goddard  would  naturally  enough  have  sent  for  him, 
more  as  her  clergyman  than  as  her  friend.  She  looked 
like  a  person  suffering  from  some  great  mental  strain. 
He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  passive  hand. 
He  was  moved,  and  felt  as  though  he  might  have 
been  her  father. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  kindly,  almost  as  though  he 
were  speaking  to  a  child,  "  have  you  anything  upon 
your  mind,  anything  which  distresses  you?  Do  you 
wish  to  tell  me  ?  If  so  I  will  do  my  very  best  to  help 
you." 

Mrs.  Goddard's  fingers  pressed  his  hand  a  little, 
but  her  face  was  still  turned  away. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Juxon,"  she  almost  whispered.  If  she 
had  been  watching  the  vicar  she  would  have  noticed 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  259 

the  strange  air  of  perplexity  which  came  over  his  face 
when  he  heard  the  squire's  name. 

"Yes  —  Mr.  Juxon,"  she  moaned.  Then  the 
choked-down  horror  rose  in  her  throat.  "  Walter 
means  to  murder  him !  "  she  almost  screamed.  "  Oh, 
my  God,  my  God,  what  shall  I  do ! "  she  cried  aloud 
clasping  her  hands  suddenly  over  her  face  and  rock 
ing  herself  to  and  fro. 

The  vicar  was  horror-struck ;  he  could  hardly  be 
lieve  his  ears,  and  believing  them  his  senses  swam. 
In  his  wildest  dreams  —  and  the  good  man's  dreams 
were  rarely  wild  —  he  had  never  thought  that  such 
things  could  come  near  him.  Being  a  very  good 
man  and,  moreover,  a  wise  man  when  he  had  plenty 
of  time  for  reflection,  he  folded  his  hands  quietly  and 
bent  his  head,  praying  fervently  for  the  poor  tortured 
woman  who  moaned  and  tossed  herself  beside  him. 
It  was  a  terrible  moment.  Suddenly  she  controlled 
herself  and  grasping  one  of  the  arms  of  the  chair 
looked  round  at  her  silent  companion. 

"  You  must  save  him,"  she  said  in  agonised  tones, 
"you  must  save  them  both!  Do  not  tell  me  you 
cannot  —  oh,  do  not  tell  me  that ! " 

It  was  a  passionate  and  heart-broken  appeal,  such 
a  one  as  few  men  would  or  could  resist,  coming  as  it 
did  from  a  helpless  and  miserably  unhappy  woman. 
Whether  the  vicar  was  wise  in  giving  the  answer  he 
did,  it  would  be  hard  to  say :  but  he  was  a  man  who 
honestly  tried  to  do  his  best. 

"I  will  try,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said,  making  a 
great  resolution.  Mrs.  Goddard  took  his  hand  and 
pressed  it  in  both  of  hers,  and  the  long  restrained 
tears  flowed  fast  and  softly  over  her  worn  cheeks. 
For  some  moments  neither  spoke. 


260       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  If  you  cannot  save  both  —  you  must  save  —  Mr. 
Juxon,"  she  said  at  last,  breathing  the  words  rather 
than  speaking  them. 

The  vicar  knew  or  guessed  what  it  must  cost  her 
to  hint  that  her  husband  might  be  captured.  He 
recognised  that  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  con 
tribute  towards  the  escape  of  the  convict  was  by  not 
revealing  his  hiding-place,  and  he  accordingly  re 
frained  from  asking  where  he  was  concealed.  He 
shuddered  as  he  thought  that  Goddard  might  be 
lying  hidden  in  the  cottage  itself,  for  all  he  could 
tell,  but  he  was  quite  sure  that  he  ought  not  to  know 
it.  So  long  as  he  did  not  know  where  the  forger 
was*  it  was  easy  to  hold  his  peace ;  but  if  once  he 
knew,  the  vicar  was  not  capable  of  denying  the 
knowledge.  He  had  never  told  a  lie  in  his  life. 

"  I  will  try,"  he  repeated ;  and  growing  calmer,  he 
added,  "  You  are  quite  sure  this  was  not  an  empty 
threat,  my  dear  friend?  Was  there  any  reason  — 
a  —  I  mean  to  say,  had  this  unfortunate  man  ever 
known  Mr.  Juxon  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  ! "  answered  Mrs.  Goddard,  sinking  back 
into  her  chair.  "He  never  knew  him."  Her  tears 
were  still  flowing  but  she  no  longer  sobbed  aloud ;  it 
had  been  a  relief  to  her  overwrought  and  sensitive 
temperament  to  give  way  to  the  fit  of  weeping.  She 
actually  felt  better,  though  ten  minutes  earlier  she 
would  not  have  believed  it  possible. 

"  Then  —  why?  "  asked  Mr.  Ambrose,  hesitating. 

"  My  poor  husband  was  a  very  jealous  man,"  she 
answered.  "  I  accidentally  told  him  that  the  cottage 
belonged  to  Mr.  Juxon  and  yesterday  —  do  you  re 
member?  You  walked  on  with  Mr.  Juxon  beyond 
the  turning,  and  then  he  came  back  to  see  me  —  to 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  261 

tell  me  of  my  husband's  escape.  Walter  saw  that 
and  —  and  he  thought,  I  suppose  —  that  Mr.  Juxon 
did  not  want  you  to  see  him  coming  here." 

"  But  Mr.  Juxon  had  just  promised  me  to  go  and 
see  you,"  said  the  honest  vicar. 

"  Yes,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Goddard,  beginning  to  sob 
again,  "  but  Walter — my  husband — thinks  that  I  —  I 
care  for  Mr.  Juxon — he  is  so  jealous,"  cried  she,  again 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  The  starting  tears 
trickled  through  her  fingers  and  fell  upon  her  black 
dress.  She  was  ashamed,  this  time,  for  she  hated  even 
to  speak  of  such  a  possibility. 

"  I  understand,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose  gravely.  It 
certainly  did  not  strike  him  that  it  might  be  true,  and 
his  knowledge  of  such  characters  as  Walter  Goddard 
was  got  chiefly  from  the  newspapers.  He  had  often 
noticed  in  reports  of  trials  and  detailed  descriptions 
of  crimes  that  criminals  seem  to  become  entirely  ir 
rational  after  a  certain  length  of  time,  and  it  was  one 
of  the  arguments  he  best  understood  for  demonstrat 
ing  that  bad  men  either  are  originally,  or  ultimately 
become  mad.  To  men  like  the  vicar,  almost  the  only 
possible  theory  of  crime  is  the  theory  of  insanity.  It 
is  positively  impossible  for  a  man  who  has  passed 
thirty  or  forty  years  in  a  quiet  country  parish  to  com 
prehend  the  motives  or  the  actions  of  great  criminals. 
He  naturally  says  they  must  be  crazy  or  they  would 
not  do  such  things.  If  Goddard  were  crazy  enough 
to  commit  a  forgery,  he  was  crazy  enough  for  any 
thing,  even  to  the  extent  of  suspecting  that  his  wife 
loved  the  squire. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  "  that  if  you  agree 
with  me  it  will  be  best  to  warn  Mr.  Juxon  of  his 
danger." 


262  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  Of  course,"  murmured  Mrs.  Goddard.  "  You  must 
warn  him  at  once  !  " 

"  I  will  go  to  the  Hall  now,"  said  the  vicar  bravely. 
"  But  —  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  dwell  on  the  sub 
ject,  my  dear  lady,  but,  without  wishing  in  the  least 
to  know  where  the — your  husband  is,  could  you  tell 
me  anything  about  his  appearance  ?  For  instance,  if 
you  understand  what  I  mean,  supposing  that  Mr. 
Juxon  knew  how  he  looked  and  should  happen  to 
meet  him,  knowing  that  he  wished  to  kill  him — he 
might  perhaps  avoid  him,  if  you  understand  me  ?  " 

The  vicar's  English  was  a  little  disturbed  by  his 
extreme  desire  not  to  hurt  Mrs.  Goddard's  feelings. 

c5 

If  the  squire  and  his  dog  chanced  to  meet  Walter 
Goddard  they  would  probably  not  avoid  him  as  the 
vicar  expressed  it;  that  was  a  point  Mr.  Ambrose  was 
willing  to  leave  to  Mrs.  Goddard's  imagination. 

"  Yes  —  must  you  know?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  We  must  know  that,"  returned  the  vicar. 

"  He  is  disguised  as  a  poor  tramp,"  she  said  sorrow 
fully.  "  He  wears  a  smock-frock  and  an  old  hat  I 
think.  He  is  pale  —  oh,  poor,  poor  Walter !  "  she 
cried  again  bursting  into  tears. 

Mr.  Ambrose  could  say  nothing.  There  was  noth 
ing  to  be  said.  He  rose  and  took  his  hat  —  the  old 
tall  hat  he  wore  to  his  parishioners'  funerals.  They 

IT  J 

were  very  primitive  people  in  Billingsfield. 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  he  said.  "  Believe  me,  you 
have  all  my  sympathy  —  I  will  do  all  I  can." 

Mary  Goddard  thanked  him  more  by  her  looks 
than  with  any  words  she  was  able  to  speak.  But  she 
was  none  the  less  truly  grateful  for  his  sympathy  and 
aid.  She  had  a  kind  of  blind  reliance  on  him  which 
made  her  feel  that  since  she  had  once  confided  her 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  263 

trouble  and  danger  nothing  more  could  possibly  be 
done.  When  he  was  gone,  she  sobbed  with  relief,  as 
before  she  had  wept  for  fear ;  she  was  hysterical,  un 
strung,  utterly  unlike  herself. 

But  as  the  vicar  went  up  towards  the  Hall  he  felt 
that  he  had  his  hands  full,  and  he  felt  moreover  an 
uneasy  sensation  which  he  could  not  have  explained. 
He  was  certainly  no  coward,  but  he  had  never  been 
in  such  a  position  before  and  he  did  not  like  it ;  there 
was  an  air  of  danger  about,  an  atmosphere  which  gave 
him  a  peculiarly  unpleasant  thrill  from  time  to  time. 
He  was  not  engaged  upon  an  agreeable  errand,  and 
he  had  a  vague  feeling,  due,  the  scientists  would  have 
told  him,  to  unconscious  ratiocination,  which  seemed 
to  tell  him  that  something  was  going  to  happen. 
People  who  are  very  often  in  danger  know  that  sin 
gular  uneasiness  which  warns  them  that  all  is  not 
well ;  it  is  not  like  anything  else  that  can  be  felt. 
No  one  really  knows  its  cause,  unless  it  be  true  that 
the  mind  sometimes  reasons  for  itself  without  the  con 
sciousness  of  the  body,  and  communicates  to  the  latter 
a  spasmodic  warning,  the  result  of  its  cogitations. 

To  say  to  the  sturdy  squire,  "  Beware  of  a  man  in 
a  smock-frock,  one  Goddard  the  forger,  who  means  to 
murder  you,"  seemed  of  itself  simple  enough.  But 
for  the  squire  to  distinguish  this  same  Goddard  from 
all  other  men  in  smock-frocks  was  a  less  eas}^  matter. 
The  vicar,  indeed,  could  tell  a  strange  face  at  a  hun 
dred  yards,  for  he  knew  every  man,  woman  and  child 
in  his  parish  ;  but  the  squire's  acquaintance  was  more 
limited.  Obviously,  said  Mr.  Ambrose  to  himself,  the 
squire's  best  course  would  be  to  stay  quietly  at  home 
until  the  danger  was  passed,  and  to  pass  word  to 
Policeman  Gall  to  lay  hands  on  any  particularly 


264  A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH. 

seedy-looking  tramps  he  happened  to  see  in  the  vil 
lage.  It  was  Gall's  duty  to  do  so  in  any  case,  as  he 
had  been  warned  to  be  on  the  look-out.  Mr.  Ambrose 
inwardly  wondered  where  the  man  could  be  hiding. 
Billingsfield  was  not,  he  believed,  an  easy  place  to 
hide  in,  for  every  ploughman  knew  his  fellow,  and  a 
new  face  was  always  an  object  of  suspicion.  Not  a 
gipsy  tinker  entered  the  village  but  what  every  one 
heard  of  it,  and  though  tramps  came  through  from 
time  to  time,  it  would  be  a  difficult  matter  for  one  of 
them  to  remain  two  days  in  the  place  without  attract 
ing  a  great  deal  of  attention.  It  was  possible  that 
Walter  Goddard  might  have  been  concealed  for  one 
night  in  his  wife's  house,  but  even  there  he  could  not 
have  remained  hidden  for  two  days  without  being  seen 
by  Mrs.  Goddard's  two  women  servants.  The  vicar 
walked  rapidly  through  the  park,  looking  about  him 
suspiciously  as  he  went.  Goddard  might  at  that  very 
moment  be  lurking  behind  any  one  of  those  oaks ;  it 
would  be  most  unpleasant  if  he  mistook  the  vicar  for 
the  squire.  But  that,  the  vicar  reflected,  was  impos 
sible  on  account  of  his  clerical  dress.  He  reached 
the  Hall  in  safety  and  stood  looking  down  among  the 
leafless  trees,  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  265 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MR.  JUXON  received  the  vicar  in  the  library  as  he 
had  received  him  on  the  previous  day;  but  on  the 
present  occasion  Mr.  Ambrose  had  not  been  sent  for 
and  the  squire's  face  wore  an  expression  of  inquiry. 
He  supposed  his  friend  had  come  to  ask  him  the  re 
sult  of  the  interview  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  and  as  he 
himself  was  on  the  point  of  going  towards  the  cottage 
he  wished  the  vicar  had  come  at  a  later  or  an  earlier 
hour. 

"  I  have  a  message  to  give  you,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose, 
"  a  very  important  message." 

"Indeed?"  answered  the  squire,  observing  his 
serious  face. 

"Yes.  I  had  better  tell  you  at  once.  Mrs. 
Goddard  sent  for  me  this  morning.  She  has  actually 
seen  her  husband,  who  must  be  hiding  in  the  neigh 
bourhood.  He  came  to  her  drawing-room  window  last 
night  and  the  night  before." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Juxon.  "  You  don't 
tell  me  so ! " 

"  That  is  not  the  worst  of  the  matter,"  continued 
the  vicar,  looking  very  grave  and  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  squire's  face.  "  This  villainous  fellow  has  been 
threatening  to  take  your  life,  Mr.  Juxon." 

Mr.  Juxon  stared  at  the  vicar  for  a  moment  in  sur 
prise,  and  then  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  My  life  ! "  he  cried.     "  Upon  my  word,  the  fellow 


266  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

does  not  know  what  he  is  talking  about !  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  this  escaped  convict,  who  can  be 
arrested  at  sight  wherever  he  is  found,  imagines  that 
he  could  attack  me  in  broad  daylight  without  being 
caught?" 

"Well,  no,  I  suppose  not  —  but  you  often  walk 
home  at  night,  Mr.  Juxon  —  alone  through  the 
park." 

"I  think  that  dog  of  mine  could  manage  Mr. 
Goddard,"  remarked  the  squire  calmly.  "  And  pray, 
Mr.  Ambrose,  now  that  we  know  that  the  man  is  in 
the  neighbourhood,  what  is  to  prevent  us  from  finding 
him?" 

"  We  do  not  know  where  he  is,"  replied  the  vicar, 
thanking  the  inspiration  which  had  prevented  him 
from  asking  Mrs.  Goddard  more  questions.  He  had 
promised  to  save  Goddard,  too,  or  at  least  not  to 
facilitate  his  capture.  But  though  he  was  glad  to  be 
able  to  say  honestly  that  he  did  not  know  where  he 
was,  he  began  to  doubt  whether  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law  he  was  acting  rightly. 

"You  do  not  know?"  asked  the  squire. 

"No  ;  and  besides  I  think  —  perhaps  —  we  ought  to 
consider  poor  Mrs.  Goddard's  position." 

"Mrs.  Goddard's  position!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Juxon 
almost  angrily.  "  And  who  should  consider  her  posi 
tion  more  than  I,  Mr.  Ambrose  ?  My  dear  sir,  I  con 
sider  her  position  before  all  things  —  of  course  I  do. 
But  nothing  could  be  of  greater  advantage  to  her 
position  than  the  certainty  that  her  husband  is  safely 
lodged  in  prison.  I  cannot  imagine  ho\v  he  contrived 
to  escape  —  can  you?" 

"No,  I  cannot,"  answered  Mr.  Ambrose,  thrusting 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  biting  his  long  upper  lip. 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PAEISH.  267 

"  By  the  bye,  did  the  fellow  happen  to  say  why  he 
meant  to  lay  violent  hands  on  me?"  inquired  Mr. 
Juxon. 

"  Since  you  ask  —  he  did.  It  appears  that  he  saw 
you  going  into  the  cottage,  and  immediately  became 
jealous  —  " 

"  Of  me  ?  "  Mr.  Juxon  coloured  a  little  beneath 
his  bronzed  complexion,  and  grew  more  angry.  "Well, 
upon  my  word!  But  if  that  is  true  I  am  much 
obliged  for  your  warning.  Fellows  of  that  sort  never 
reason  —  he  will  very  likely  attack  me  as  you  say. 
It  will  be  quite  the  last  time  he  attacks  anybody  — 
the  devil  shall  have  his  own,  Mr.  Ambrose,  if  I  can 
help  him  to  it  —  " 

"Dear  me!  Mr.  Juxon  —  you  surprise  me,"  said 
the  vicar,  who  had  never  heard  his  friend  use  such 
strong  language  before. 

"  It  is  enough  to  surprise  anybody,"  remarked  the 
squire.  "I  trust  we  shall  surprise  Mr.  Goddard 
before  night.  Excuse  me,  but  when  did  he  express 
his  amiable  intentions  towards  me  ?  " 

"Last  night,  I  believe,"  replied  Mr.  Ambrose, 
reluctantly. 

"And  when  did  he  see  me  going  into  the  cot 
tage?" 

"Yesterday  afternoon,  I  believe."  The  vicar  felt 
as  though  he  were  beginning  to  break  his  promise  of 
shielding  the  fugitive,  but  he  could  not  refuse  to 
answer  a  direct  question. 

"Then,  when  he  saw  me,  he  was  either  in  the 
cottage  or  in  the  park.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
road,  I  am  quite  sure." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  vicar,  delighted  at  being 
able  to  say  so.  He  was  such  a  simple  man  that  Mr. 


268  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

Juxon  noticed  the  tone  of  relief  in  which  he  denied 
any  knowledge  of  Goddard's  whereabouts  on  the 
previous  day  as  compared  with  his  reluctance  to 
answer  upon  those  points  of  which  he  was  certain. 

"You  are  not  anxious  that  Goddard  should  be 
caught,"  said  the  squire  rather  sharply. 

"  Frankly,"  returned  the  vicar,  "  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  instrumental  in  his  capture  —  not  that  I  am  likely 
to  be." 

"That  is  none  of  my  business,  Mr.  Ambrose.  I 
will  try  and  catch  him  alone.  But  it  would  be  better 
that  he  should  be  taken  alive  and  quietly  —  " 

"Surely,"  cried  the  vicar  in  great  alarm,  "you 
would  not  kill  him  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  certainly  not.  But  my  dog  might,  Mr. 
Ambrose.  They  are  ugly  dogs  when  they  are  angry, 
and  they  have  a  remarkable  faculty  for  finding  people 
who  are  lost.  They  used  to  use  them  in  Russia  for 
tracking  fugitive  serfs  and  convicts  who  escaped  from 
Siberia." 

Mr.  Ambrose  shuddered.  The  honest  squire  seemed 
almost  as  bloodthirsty  in  his  eyes  as  the  convict 
Goddard.  He  felt  that  he  did  not  understand  Mr. 
Juxon.  The  idea  of  hunting  people  with  blood 
hounds  seemed  utterly  foreign  to  his  English  nature, 
and  he  could  not  understand  how  his  English  friend 
could  entertain  such  a  thought;  he  probably  forgot 
that  a  few  generations  earlier  the  hunting  of  all  kinds 
of  men,  papists,  dissenters,  covenanters  and  rebels, 
with  dogs,  had  been  a  favourite  English  sport. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Juxon,"  he  said  in  an  agitated  tone, 
"  I  think  you  would  do  much  better  to  protect  your 
self  with  the  means  provided  by  the  law.  Considera 
tions  of  humanity  —  " 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  269 

"  Considerations  of  humanity,  sir,  are  at  an  end 
when  one  man  threatens  the  life  of  another.  You 
admit  yourself  that  I  am  not  safe  unless  Goddard  is 
caught,  and  yet  you  object  to  my  method  of  catching 
him.  That  is  illogical." 

The  vicar  felt  that  this  was  to  some  extent  true ; 
but  he  was  not  willing  to  admit  it.  He-  knew  also 
that  if  he  could  dissuade  the  squire  from  his  barbar 
ous  scheme,  Goddard  would  have  a  far  better  chance 
of  escape. 

"I  think  that  with  the  assistance  of  Gall  and  a 
London  detective — "  he  began. 

"  Gall  is  an  old  woman,  Mr.  Ambrose,  and  it  will 
take  twenty-four  hours  to  get  a  detective  from  town. 
In  twenty-four  hours  this  man  may  have  attacked 
me." 

"He  will  hardly  attempt  to  force  his  way  into 
your  house,  Mr.  Juxon." 

"  So  then,  I  am  to  stay  at  home  to  suit  his  con 
venience  ?  I  will  not  do  any  such  thing.  Besides, 
in  twenty-four  hours  Goddard  may  have  changed  his 
mind  and  may  have  taken  himself  off.  For  the  rest 
of  her  life  Mrs.  Goddard  will  then  be  exposed  to  the 
possibility  of  every  kind  of  annoyance." 

"  He  would  never  come  back,  I  am  sure,"  objected 
the  vicar. 

"  Why  not  ?  Every  time  he  comes  she  will  give 
him  money.  The  more  money  she  gives  him  the 
more  often  he  will  come,  unless  we  put  an  end  to  his 
coming  altogether." 

"  You  seem  to  forget,"  urged  Mr.  Ambrose,  "  that 
there  will  be  a  vigorous  search  made  for  him.  Why 
not  telegraph  to  the  governor  of  Portland  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  save  Mrs.  Goddard  from 


270  A  TALE  OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

needless  scandal ;  did  you  not  ?  "  returned  the  squire. 
"  The  governor  of  Portland  would  send  down  a  squad 
of  police  who  would  publish  the  whole  affair.  He 
would  have  done  so  as  soon  as  the  man  escaped  had 
he  known  that  Mrs.  Goddard  lived  here." 

"I  wonder  how  Goddard  himself  knew  it,'*  re 
marked  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  she  told  him  she  was 
coming  here,  at  their  last  interview.  Or  perhaps  she 
wrote  to  him  in  prison  and  the  governor  overlooked 
the  letter.  Anything  like  that  would  account  for  it." 

"  But  if  you  catch  him  —  alive,"  hesitated  the  vicar, 
"  it  will  all  be  known  at  once.  I  do  not  see  how  you 
can  prevent  that." 

"  If  I  catch  him  alive,  I  will  take  him  out  of  Bil- 
lingsfield  without  any  one's  knowledge.  I  do  not 
mean  to  hurt  him.  I  only  want  to  get  him  back  to 
prison.  Believe  me,  I  am  much  more  anxious  than  you 
can  possibly  be  to  save  Mrs.  Goddard  from  harm." 

"Very  well.  I  have  done  my  errand,"  said  Mr. 
Ambrose,  with  a  sort  of  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  confess,  I 
am  in  great  anxiety  of  mind,  both  on  your  account 
and  on  hers.  I  never  dreamed  that  such  things 
could  happen  in  Billingsfield." 

"You  are  certainly  not  responsible  for  them," 
answered  Mr.  Juxon.  "  It  is  not  your  fault  —  " 

"Not  altogether,  perhaps.  But  I  was  perhaps 
wrong  in  letting  her  come  here  —  no,  I  am  sure  I 
was  not,"  he  added  impulsively,  as  though  ashamed 
of  having  said  anything  so  unkind. 

"  Certainly  not.  You  were  quite  right,  Mr.  Am 
brose,  quite  right,  I  assure  you." 

"  Well,  I  hope  all  may  yet  be  for  the  best,"  said 
the  vicar. 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  271 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  replied  Mr.  Juxon  gravely. 
"  By  all  means,  let  us  hope  that  all  may  be  for  the 
best." 

Whether  the  squire  doubted  the  possibility  of  so 
happy  an  issue  to  events  or  not,  is  uncertain.  He  felt 
almost  more  sorry  for  the  vicar  than  for  himself; 
the  vicar  was  such  a  good  man,  so  unused  to  the 
violent  deeds  of  violent  people,  of  which  the  squire 
in  his  wanderings  had  seen  more  than  was  necessary 
to  convince  him  that  all  was  not  always  for  the  best 
in  this  best  of  all  possible  worlds. 

Mr.  Ambrose  left  his  friend  and  as  he  retraced  his 
steps  through  the  park  was  more  disturbed  than  ever. 
That  Goddard  should  contemplate  killing  the  squire 
was  bad  enough,  in  all  conscience,  but  that  the  squire 
should  deliberately  purpose  to  hunt  down  Goddard 
with  his  bloodhound  seemed  somehow  even  worse. 
The  vicar  had  indeed  promised  Mrs.  Goddard  that 
he  would  not  help  to  capture  her  husband,  but  he 
would  have  been  as  glad  as  any  one  to  hear  that  the 
convict  was  once  more  lodged  in  his  prison.  There 
lurked  in  his  mind,  nevertheless,  an  impression  that 
even  a  convict  should  have  a  fair  chance.  The  idea 
was  not  expressed,  but  existed  in  him.  Everybody, 
he  would  have  said,  ought  to  have  a  fair  chance,  and 
as  the  law  of  nations  forbids  the  use  of  explosive  bul 
lets  in  warfare,  the  laws  of  humanity  seemed  to  forbid 
the  use  of  bloodhounds  in  the  pursuit  of  criminals. 
He  had  a  very  great  respect  for  the  squire's  character 
and  principles,  but  the  cold-blooded  way  in  which  Mr. 
Juxon  had  spoken  of  catching  and  probably  killing 
Walter  Goddard,  had  shaken  the  good  vicar's  belief 
in  his  friend.  He  doubted  whether  he  were  not  now 
bound  to  return  to  Mrs.  Goddard  and  to  warn  her  in 


272  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

his  turn  of  her  husband's  danger,  whether  he  ought 
not  to  do  something  to  save  the  wretched  convict  from 
his  fate.  It  seemed  hideous  to  think  that  in  peaceful 
Billingsfield,  in  his  own  lonely  parish,  a  human  being 
should  be  exposed  to  such  peril.  But  at  this  point 
the  vicar's  continuity  forsook  him.  He  had  not  the 
heart  to  tell  the  tale  of  his  interview  with  Mr.  Juxon 
to  the  unhappy  lady  he  had  left  that  morning.  It 
was  extremely  improbable,  he  thought,  that  she 
should  be  able  to  communicate  with  her  husband  dur 
ing  the  day,  and  the  squire's  language  led  him  to 
think  that  the  day  would  not  pass  without  some 
attempt  to  discover  Walter  Goddard's  hiding-place. 
Besides,  the  vicar's  mind  was  altogether  more  dis 
turbed  than  it  had  been  in  thirty  years,  and  he  was 
no  longer  able  to  account  to  himself  with  absolute 
accuracy  for  what  he  did.  At  all  events,  he  felt  that 
it  was  better  not  to  tell  Mrs.  Goddard  what  the  squire 
had  said. 

When  he  was  gone,  Mr.  Juxon  paced  his  library 
alone  in  the  greatest  uncertainty.  He  had  told  the 
vicar  in  his  anger  that  he  would  find  Goddard  with 
the  help  of  Stamboul.  That  the  hound  was  able  to 
accomplish  the  feat  in  the  present  weather,  and  if 
Goddard  had  actually  stood  some  time  at  the  cottage 
window  on  the  previous  night,  he  did  not  doubt  for  a 
moment.  The  vicar  had  mentioned  the  window  to 
him  when  he  told  him  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  seen 
her  husband.  He  had  probably  been  at  the  window 
as  late  as  midnight,  and  the  scent,  renewed  by  his 
visit,  would  not  be  twelve  hours  old.  Stamboul 
could  find  the  man,  unless  he  had  got  into  a  cart, 
which  was  improbable.  But  a  new  and  startling  con 
sideration  presented  itself  to  the  squire's  mind  when 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       273 

the  vicar  was  gone  and  his  anger  had  subsided ;  a 
consideration  which  made  him  hesitate  what  course 
to  pursue. 

That  he  would  be  justified  in  using  any  means  in 
his  power  to  catch  the  criminal  seemed  certain.  It 
would  be  for  the  public  good  that  he  should  be  de 
livered  up  to  justice  as  soon  as  possible.  So  long  as 
Goddard  was  at  large  the  squire's  own  life  was  not 
safe,  and  Mrs.  Goddard  was  liable  to  all  kinds  of 
annoyances  at  any  moment.  There  was  every  reason 
why  the  fellow  should  be  captured.  But  to  capture 
him,  safe  and  sound,  was  one  thing ;  to  expose  him  to 
the  jaws  of  Stamboul  was  quite  another.  Mr.  Juxon 
had  a  lively  recollection  of  the  day  in  the  Belgrade 
forest  when  the  great  hound  had  pulled  down  one  of 
his  assailants,  making  his  fangs  meet  through  flesh 
and  bone.  If  Stamboul  were  set  upon  Goddard's 
track,  the  convict  could  hardly  escape  with  his  life. 
In  the  first  flush  of  the  squire's  anger  this  seemed  of 
little  importance.  But  on  mature  reflection  the  thing 
appeared  in  a  different  light. 

He  loved  Mrs.  Goddard  in  his  own  way,  which  was 
a  very  honourable  way,  if  not  very  passionate.  He 
had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  had  expressed  a 
wish  that  she  were  a  widow,  implying  perhaps  that  if 
she  had  been  free  she  would  have  accepted  him.  If 
the  obstacle  of  her  living  husband  were  removed,  it 
was  not  improbable  that  she  would  look  favourably 
upon  the  squire's  suit;  to  bring  Goddard  to  an  un 
timely  end  would  undoubtedly  be  to  clear  the  way  for 
the  squire.  It  was  not  then,  a  legitimate  desire  for 
justice  which  made  him  wish  to  catch  the  convict  and 
almost  to  wish  that  Stamboul  might  worry  him  to 
death ;  it  was  the  secret  hope  that  Goddard  might  be 


274       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

killed  and  that  he,  Charles  James  Juxon,  might  have 
the  chance  to  marry  his  widow.  "  In  other  words,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  I  really  want  to  murder  Goddard 
and  take  his  wife." 

It  was  not  easy  to  see  where  legitimate  severity 
ended  and  unlawful  and  murderous  selfishness  began. 
The  temptation  was  a  terrible  one.  The  very  uncer 
tainty  which  there  was,  tempted  the  squire  to  disre 
gard  the  possibility  of  Goddard's  death  as  compared 
with  the  importance  of  his  capture.  It  was  quite 
likely,  he  unconsciously  argued,  that  the  bloodhound 
would  not  kill  him  after  all;  it  was  even  possible 
that  he  might  not  find  him ;  but  it  would  be  worth 
while  to  make  the  attempt,  for  the  results  to  be  ob 
tained  by  catching  the  fugitive  were  very  great — 
Mrs.  Goddard's  peace  was  to  be  considered  before  all 
things.  But  still  before  the  squire's  eyes  arose  the 
picture  of  Stamboul  tearing  the  throat  of  the  man  he 
had  killed  in  the  Belgrade  forest.  If  he  killed  the 
felon,  Juxon  would  know  that  to  all  intents  and  pur 
poses  he  had  himself  done  the  deed  in  order  to  marry 
Mrs.  Goddard.  But  still  the  thought  remained  with 
him  and  would  not  leave  him. 

The  fellow  had  threatened  his  own  life.  It  was 
then  a  fair  fight,  for  a  man  cannot  be  blamed  if  he 
tries  to  get  the  better  of  one  who  is  going  about  to 
kill  him.  On  one  of  his  many  voyages,  he  had  once 
shot  a  man  in  order  to  quell  a  mutiny ;  he  had  not 
killed  him  it  is  true,  but  he  had  disabled  him  for  the 
time  —  he  had  handled  many  a  rough  customer  in  his 
day.  The  case,  he  thought,  was  similar,  for  it  was 
the  case  of  self-defence.  The  law,  even,  would  say 
he  was  justified.  But  to  slay  a  man  in  self-defence 
and  then  to  marry  his  widow,  though  justifiable  in 


A   TALE    OF    A    LONELY    PARISH.  275 

law,  is  a  very  delicate  case  for  the  conscience ;  and  in 
spite  of  the  wandering  life  he  had  led,  Mr.  Juxon's 
conscience  was  sensitive.  He  was  an  honest  man  and 
a  gentleman,  he  had  tried  all  his  life  to  do  right  as 
he  saw  it,  and  did  not  mean  to  turn  murderer  now, 
no  matter  how  easy  it  would  be  for  him  to  defend  his 
action. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  had  decided  that  it  would 
be  murder,  and  no  less,  to  let  Stamboul  track  Goddard 
to  his  hiding-place.  The  hound  might  accompany 
him  in  his  walks,  and  if  anybody  attacked  him  it 
would  be  so  much  the  worse  for  his  assailant.  Mur 
der  or  no  murder,  he  was  entitled  to  take  any  pre 
cautions  he  pleased  against  an  assault.  But  he 
would  not  willingly  put  the  bloodhound  on  the  scent, 
and  he  knew  well  enough  that  the  dog  would  not 
run  upon  a  strange  trail  unless  he  were  put  to  it. 
The  squire  went  to  his  lunch,  feeling  that  he  had 
made  a  good  resolution ;  but  he  ate  little  and  soon 
afterwards  began  to  feel  the  need  of  going  down  to 
see  Mrs.  Goddard.  No  day  was  complete  without 
seeing  her,  and  considering  the  circumstances  which 
had  occurred  on  the  previous  afternoon,  it  was  nat 
ural  that  he  should  call  to  inquire  after  her  state.  In 
the  hall,  the  gigantic  beast  which  had  played  such  an 
important  part  in  his  thoughts  during  the  morning, 
came  solemnly  up  to  him,  raising  his  great  red  eyes  as 
though  asking  whether  he  were  to  accompany  his 
master.  The  squire  stood  still  and  looked  at  him  for 
a  moment. 

"  Come  along,  Stamboul ! "  he  said  suddenly,  as  he 
put  on  his  hat.  The  hound  leaped  up  and  laid  his 
heavy  paws  on  the  squire's  shoulders,  trying  to  lick 
his  face  in  his  delight,  then,  almost  upsetting  the 


276  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

sturdy  man  he  sprang  back,  slipped  on  the  polished 
floor,  recovered  himself  and  with  an  enormous  stride 
bounded  past  Mr.  Juxon,  out  into  the  park.  But  Mr. 
Juxon  quickly  called  him  back,  and  presently  he  was 
following  close  at  heel  in  his  own  stately  way,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  The  squire  felt 
nervous,  and  the  sensation  was  new  to  him.  He  did 
not  believe  that  Goddard  would  really  attack  him  at 
all,  certainly  not  that  he  would  dare  to  attack  him  in 
broad  daylight.  But  the  knowledge  of  the  threat  the 
fellow  had  uttered  made  him  watchful.  He  glanced 
to  the  right  and  left  as  he  walked  and  gripped  his 
heavy  blackthorn  stick  firmly  in  his  hand.  He  wished 
that  if  the  man  were  to  appear  he  would  come  quickly 
—  it  might  be  hard  to  hold  Stamboul  back  if  he  were 
attacked  unawares. 

He  reached  the  gate,  crossed  the  road  and  rang  the 
bell  of  the  cottage.  As  he  stood  waiting,  Stamboul 
smelled  the  ground,  put  up  his  head,  smelled  it  again 
and  with  his  nose  down  trotted  slowly  to  the  window 
on  the  left  hand  of  the  door.  He  smelled  the  ground, 
the  wall  and  presently  put  both  his  fore  paws  upon 
the  outer  ledge  of  the  window.  Then  he  dropped 
again,  and  looked  at  his  master.  Martha  was  a  long 
time  in  coming  to  the  door. 

"  After  him,  Stamboul ! "  said  the  squire,  almost 
unconsciously.  The  dog  put  his  nose  down  and  began 
to  move  slowly  about.  At  that  moment  the  door 
opened. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Martha,  "  it's  you,  sir.  I  was  to  say, 
if  you  please,  that  if  you  called,  Mrs.  Goddard  was 
poorly  to-day,  sir." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "  I  hope  she  is  not  ill. 
Is  it  anything  serious,  Martha  ?  " 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  277 

"  Well,  sir,  she's  been  down  this  mornin',  but  her 
head  ached  terrible  bad  and  she  went  back  to  her 
room  —  oh,  sir,  your  dog  —  he's  a  runnin'  home." 

As  she  spoke  a  sound  rang  in  the  air  that  made 
Martha  start  back.  It  was  a  deep,  resounding,  bell- 
like  note,  fierce  and  wild,  rising  and  falling,  low  but 
full,  with  a  horror  indescribable  in  its  echo  —  the 
sound  which  no  man  who  has  heard  it  ever  forgets  — 
the  baying  of  a  bloodhound  on  the  track  of  a  man. 

The  squire  turned  deadly  pale,  but  he  shouted  with 
all  his  might,  as  he  would  have  shouted  to  a  man  on 
the  topsail  yard  in  a  gale  at  sea. 

"  Stamboul !  Stamboul !  Stamboul !  "  Again  and 
again  he  yelled  the  dog's  name. 

Stamboul  had  not  gone  far.  The  quickset  hedge 
had  baffled  the  scent  for  a  moment  and  he  was  not  a 
dozen  yards  beyond  it  in  the  park  when  his  master's 
cry  stopped  him.  Instantly  he  turned,  cleared  the 
six-foot  hedge  and  double  ditch  at  a  bound  and  came 
leaping  back  across  the  road.  The  squire  breathed 
hard,  for  it  had  been  a  terrible  moment.  If  he  had 
not  succeeded  in  calling  the  beast  back,  it  might  have 
been  all  over  with  Walter  Goddard,  wherever  he  was 
hidden. 

"It  is  only  his  play,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  still  very 
white  and  holding  Stamboul  by  the  collar.  "  Please 
tell  Mrs.  Goddard,  Martha,  that  I  am  very  sorry  in 
deed  to  hear  that  she  is  ill,  and  that  I  will  inquire 
this  evening." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Martha,  who  eyed  the  panting  beast 
timidly  and  showed  an  evident  desire  to  shut  the  door 
as  soon  as  possible. 

The  squire  felt  more  nervous  than  ever  as  he  walked 
slowly  along  the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  village, 


278       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

his  hand  still  on  the  bloodhound's  collar.  He  felt 
what  a  narrow  escape  Goddard  had  probably  had,  and 
the  terrible  sound  of  Stamboul's  baying  had  brought 
back  to  him  once  again  and  very  vividly  the  scene  in 
the  woods  by  the  Bosphorus.  He  felt  that  for  a  few 
minutes  at  least  he  would  rather  not  enter  the  park 
with  the  dog  by  him,  and  he  naturally  turned  towards 
the  vicarage,  not  with  any  intention  of  going  in,  but 
from  sheer  force  of  custom,  as  people  under  the  influ 
ence  of  strong  emotions  often  do  things  unconsciously 
which  they  are  in  the  habit  of  doing.  He  walked 
slowly  along,  and  had  almost  reached  Mr.  Ambrose's 
pretty  old  red  brick  house,  when  he  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  vicar's  wife.  She  presented  an  im 
posing  appearance,  as  usual ;  her  grey  skirt,  drawn  up 
a  little  from  the  mud,  revealed  a  bright  red  petticoat 
and  those  stout  shoes  which  she  regarded  as  so  essen 
tial  to  health ;  she  wore  moreover  a  capacious  sealskin 
jacket  and  a  dark  bonnet  with  certain  jet  flowers, 
which  for  many  years  had  been  regarded  by  the  in 
habitants  of  Billingsfield  as  the  distinctive  badge  of  a 
gentlewoman.  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  wont  to  smile  and 
say  that  they  were  indestructible  and  would  last  as 
long  as  she  did.  She  greeted  Mr.  Juxon  cordially. 

"  How  do  you,  Mr.  Juxon  —  were  you  going  to  see 
us  ?  I  was  just  going  for  a  walk  —  perhaps  you  will 
come  with  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Juxon  turned  back  and  prepared  to  accompany 
her. 

"  Such  good  news  this  morning,  from  John  Short," 
she  said.  "  He  has  finished  his  examinations,  and  it 
seems  almost  certain  that  he  will  be  senior  classic. 
His  tutor  at  Trinity  has  written  already  to  congratu 
late  my  husband  upon  his  success," 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  279 

"  I  am  sure,  I  am  delighted,  too,"  said  the  squire, 
who  had  regained  his  composure  but  kept  his  hold  on 
Stamboul's  collar.  "  He  deserves  all  he  gets,  and  more 
too,"  he  continued.  "  I  think  he  will  be  a  remark 
able  man." 

"I  did  not  think  you  liked  him  so  very  much," 
said  Mrs.  Ambrose  rather  doubtfully,  as  she  walked 
slowly  by  his  side. 

"  Oh  —  I  liked  him  very  much.  Indeed,  I  was 
going  to  ask  him  to  stay  with  me  for  a  few  days  at 
the  Hall." 

The  inspiration  was  spontaneous.  Mr.  Juxon  was 
in  a  frame  of  mind  in  which  he  felt  that  he  ought  to 
do  something  pleasant  for  somebody,  to  set  off  against 
the  bloodthirsty  designs  w^hich  had  passed  through  his 
mind  in  the  morning.  He  knew  that  if  he  had  not 
been  over  friendly  to  John,  it  had  been  John's  own 
fault ;  but  since  he  had  found  out  that  it  was  impos 
sible  to  marry  Mrs.  Goddard,  he  had  forgiven  the 
young  scholar  his  shortcomings  and  felt  very  chari 
tably  inclined  towards  him.  It  suddenly  struck  him 
that  it  would  give  John  great  pleasure  to  stop  at  the 
Hall  for  a  few  days,  and  that  it  would  be  no  incon 
venience  to  himself.  The  effect  upon  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  greater  even  than  he  had  expected.  She  was 
hospitable,  good  and  kind,  but  she  was  also  economi 
cal,  as  she  had  need  to  be.  The  squire  was  rich.  If 
the  squire  would  put  up  John  during  a  part  of  his 
visit  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  John  himself,  and 
an  economy  to  the  vicarage.  Mr.  Ambrose  himself 
would  not  have  gone  to  such  a  length ;  but  then,  as 
his  wife  said  to  herself  in  self-defence,  Augustin  did 
not  pay  the  butcher's  bills,  and  did  not  know  how  the 
money  went.  She  did  not  say  that  Augustin  was 


280  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

precisely  what  is  called  reckless,  but  he  of  course  did 
not  understand  economy  as  she  did.  How  should  he, 
poor  man,  with  all  his  sermons  and  his  funerals 
and  other  occupations  to  take  his  mind  off?  Mrs. 
Ambrose  was  delighted  at  the  squire's  proposal. 

"Really!"  she  exclaimed.  "That  would  be  too 
good  of  you,  Mr.  Juxon.  And  you  do  not  know  how 
it  would  quite  delight  him !  He  loves  books  so 
much,  and  then  you  know,"  she  added  in  a  confiden 
tial  manner, "  he  has  never  stayed  in  a  country  house 
in  his  life,  I  am  quite  sure." 

"And  when  is  he  coming  down?"  asked  Mr. 
Juxon.  "I  should  be  very  much  pleased  to  have 
him." 

"  To-morrow,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose. 

"  Well  —  would  you  ask  him  from  me  to  come  up 
and  stop  a  week  ?  Can  you  spare  him,  Mrs.  Ambrose  ? 
I  know  you  are  very  fond  of  him,  of  course, 
but—" 

"Oh  very,"  said  she  warmly.  "But  I  think  it 
likely  he  will  stay  some  time,"  she  added  in  explana 
tion  of  her  willingness  to  let  him  go  to  the  Hall. 

The  squire  felt  vaguely  that  the  presence  of  a 
guest  in  his  house  would  probably  be  a  restraint  upon 
him,  and  he  felt  that  some  restraint  would  be  agree 
able  to  him  at  the  present  time. 

"  Besides,"  added  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "  if  you  would 
like  to  have  him  first  —  there  is  a  little  repair  neces 
sary  in  his  room  at  the  vicarage  —  we  have  put  it  off 
too  long  —  " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  the  squire,  following  out  his 
own  train  of  thought.  "  Send  him  up  to  me  as  soon 
as  he  comes.  If  I  can  manage  it  I  will  be  down  here 
to  ask  him  myself." 


A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH.  281 

"It  is  so  good  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose. 

"  Not  at  all.     Are  you  going  to  the  cottage  ?  " 

«Yes  —  why?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Juxon.  "I  did  not  know 
whether  you  would  like  to  walk  on  a  little  farther 
with  me.  Good-bye,  then.  You  will  tell  Short  as 
soon  as  he  comes,  will  you  not?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Ambrose,  still  beaming 
upon  him.  "  I  will  not  let  him  unpack  his  things  at 
the  vicarage.  Good-bye  —  so  many  thanks." 


282  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MRS.  GODDARD'S  head  ached  "terrible  bad"  ac 
cording  to  Martha,  and  when  the  vicar  left  her  she 
went  and  lay  down  upon  her  bed,  with  a  sensation 
that  if  the  worst  were  not  yet  over  she  could  bear  no 
more.  But  she  had  an  elastic  temperament,  and  the 
fact  of  having  consulted  Mr.  Ambrose  that  morning 
had  been  a  greater  relief  than  she  herself  suspected. 
She  felt  that  he  could  be  trusted  to  save  Mr.  Juxon 
from  harm  and  Walter  from  capture,  and  having 
once  confided  to  him  the  important  secret  which  had 
so  heavily  weighed  upon  her  mind  she  felt  that  the 
burthen  of  her  troubles  was  lightened.  Mr.  Juxon 
could  take  any  measures  he  pleased  for  his  own 
safety;  he  would  probably  choose  to  stay  at  home 
until  the  danger  was  past.  As  for  her  husband, 
Mary  Goddard  did  not  believe  that  he  would  return 
a  third  time,  for  she  thought  that  she  had  thoroughly 
frightened  him.  It  was  even  likely  that  he  had  only 
thrown  out  his  threat  for  the  sake  of  terrifying  his 
wife,  and  was  now  far  beyond  the  limits  of  the  par 
ish.  So  great  was  the  relief  she  felt  after  she  had 
talked  with  the  vicar  that  she  almost  ceased  to  believe 
there  was  any  danger  at  all ;  looking  at  it  in  the  light 
of  her  present  mood,  she  almost  wondered  why  she 
had  thought  it  necessary  to  tell  Mr.  Ambrose  —  until 
suddenly  a  vision  of  her  friend  the  squire,  attacked 
and  perhaps  killed,  in  his  own  park,  rose  to  her  men- 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  283 

tal  vision,  and  she  remembered  what  agonies  of  fear 
she  had  felt  for  him  until  she  had  sent  for  the  vicar. 
The  latter  indeed  seemed  to  have  been  a  sort  of  deus 
ex  machind  by  whom  she  suddenly  obtained  peace  of 
mind  and  a  sense  of  security  in  the  hour  of  her  great 
est  distress. 

All  that  afternoon  she  lay  upon  her  bed,  while 
Nellie  sat  beside  her  and  read  to  her,  and  stroked  her 
hands ;  for  Nellie  was  in  reality  passionately  fond  of 
her  mother  and  suffered  almost  as  much  at  the  sight 
of  her  suffering  as  she  could  have  done  had  she  been 
in  pain  herself.  Both  Mrs.  Goddard  and  the  child 
started  at  the  sound  of  Stamboul's  baying,  which  was 
unlike  anything  they  had  ever  heard  before,  and 
Nellie  ran  to  the  window. 

"It  is  only  Mr.  Juxon  and  Stamboul  having  a 
game,"  said  Nellie.  "What  a  noise  he  made, 
though!  Did  not  he?" 

Poor  Nellie  —  had  she  had  any  idea  of  what  the 
"game"  was  from  which  the  squire  found  it  so  hard 
to  make  his  hound  desist,  she  must  have  gone  almost 
mad  with  horror.  For  the  game  was  her  own  father, 
poor  child.  But  she  came  back  and  sat  beside  her 
mother  utterly  unconscious  of  what  might  have  hap 
pened  if  Stamboul  had  once  got  beyond  earshot,  gal 
loping  along  the  trail  towards  the  disused  vault  at 
the  back  of  the  church.  Mrs.  Goddard  had  started 
at  the  sounds  and  had  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead, 
but  Nellie's  explanation  was  enough  to  quiet  her, 
and  she  smiled  faintly  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 
Then,  half  an  hour  later,  Mrs.  Ambrose  came,  and 
would  not  be  denied.  She  wanted  to  make  Mrs.  God 
dard  comfortable,  she  said,  when  she  found  she  was 
ill,  and  she  did  her  best,  being  a  kind  and  motherly 


284       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

woman  when  not  hardened  by  the  presence  of  stran 
gers.  She  told  her  that  John  was  coming  on  the  next 
day,  speaking  with  vast  pride  of  his  success  and 
omitting  to  look  sternly  at  Mrs.  Goddard  as  she  had 
formerly  been  accustomed  to  do  when  she  spoke  of 
the  young  scholar.  Then  at  last  she  went  away, 
after  exacting  a  promise  from  Mrs.  Goddard  to  come 
and  dine,  bringing  Nellie  with  her,  on  the  following 
day,  in  case  she  should  have  recovered  by  that  time 
from  her  headache. 

But  during  all  that  night  Mrs.  Goddard  lay  awake, 
listening  for  the  sound  she  so  much  dreaded,  of  a 
creeping  footstep  on  the  slated  path  outside  and  for 
the  tapping  at  the  window.  Nothing  came,  how 
ever,  and  as  the  grey  dawn  began  to  creep  in  through 
the  white  curtains,  she  fell  peacefully  asleep.  Nellie 
would  not  let  her  be  waked,  and  breakfasted  without 
her,  enjoying  with  childish  delight  the  state  of  being 
waited  on  by  Martha  alone. 

Meanwhile,  at  an  early  hour,  John  arrived  at  the 
vicarage  and  was  received  with  open  arms  by  Mr. 
Ambrose  and  his  wife.  The  latter  seemed  to  forget, 
in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  again,  that  she  had 
even  once  spoken  doubtfully  of  him  or  hinted  that 
he  was  anything  short  of  perfection  itself.  And  to 
prove  how  much  she  had  done  for  him  she  communi 
cated  with  great  pride  the  squire's  message,  to  the 
effect  that  he  expected  John  at  the  Hall  that  very 
day. 

John's  heart  leaped  with  delight  at  the  idea.  It 
was  natural.  He  was  indeed  most  sincerely  attached 
to  the  Ambroses,  and  most  heartily  glad  to  be  with 
them ;  but  he  had  never  in  his  life  had  an  opportu 
nity  of  staying  in  a  "  big  "  house,  as  he  would  have 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  285 

described  it.  It  seemed  as  though  he  were  already 
beginning  to  taste  the  sweet  first-fruits  of  success 
after  all  his  labour  and  all  his  privations ;  it  was  the 
first  taste  of  another  world,  the  first  mouthful  of  the 
good  things  of  life  which  had  fallen  to  his  lot.  In 
stantly  there  rose  before  him  delicious  visions  of  hot- 
water  cans  brought  by  a  real  footman,  of  luxurious 
meals  served  by  a  real  butler,  of  soft  carpets  perpetu 
ally  beneath  his  feet,  of  liberty  to  lounge  in  magnifi 
cent  chairs  in  the  magnificent  library;  and  last, 
though  not  least,  there  was  a  boyish  feeling  of  delight 
in  the  thought  that  when  he  went  to  see  Mrs.  God- 
dard  he  would  go  from  the  Hall,  that  she  would  per 
haps  associate  him  henceforth  with  a  different  kind 
of  existence,  in  a  word,  that  he  was  sure  to  acquire 
importance  in  her  eyes  from  the  fact  of  his  visit  to 
the  squire.  Many  a  young  fellow  of  one  and  twenty 
is  as  familiar  with  all  that  money  can  give  and  as 
tired  of  luxury  as  a  broken-down  hard  liver  of  forty 
years;  for  this  is  an  age  of  luxurious  living.  But 
poor  John  had  hardly  ever  tasted  the  least  of  those 
things  too  familiar  to  the  golden  youth  of  the  period 
to  be  even  noticed.  He  had  felt  when  he  first  en 
tered  the  little  drawing-room  of  the  cottage  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  herself  belonged,  or  had  belonged,  to  that 
delicious  unknown  world  of  ease  where  the  question 
of  expense  was  never  considered,  much  less  men 
tioned.  In  her  own  eyes  she  was  indeed  living  in  a 
state  approaching  to  penury,  but  the  spectacle  of  her 
pictures,  her  furniture  and  her  bibelots  had  impressed 
John  with  a  very  different  idea.  The  squire's  invi 
tation,  asking  him  to  spend  a  week  at  the  Hall, 
seemed  in  a  moment  to  put  him  upon  the  same  level 
as  the  woman  to  whom  he  believed  himself  so 


286  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

devotedly  attached.  To  his  mind  the  ideal  woman 
could  not  but  be  surrounded  by  a  luxurious  atmos 
phere  of  her  own.  To  enter  the  charmed  precincts  of 
those  surroundings  seemed  to  John  equivalent  to 
being  transported  from  the  regions  of  the  Theocritan 
to  the  level  of  the  Anacreontic  ode,  from  the  pastoral, 
of  which  he  had  had  too  much,  to  the  aristocratic, 
of  which  he  felt  that  he  could  not  have  enough.  It 
was  a  natural  feeling  in  a  very  young  man  of  his 
limited  experience. 

He  stayed  some  hours  at  the  vicarage.  Both  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ambrose  thought  him  changed  in  the  short 
time  which  had  elapsed  since  they  had  seen  him. 
He  had  grown  more  grave ;  he  was  certainly  more  of 
a  man.  The  great  contest  he  had  just  sustained 
with  so  much  honour  had  left  upon  his  young  face 
its  mark,  an  air  of  power  which  had  not  formerly  been 
visible  there ;  even  his  voice  seemed  to  have  grown 
deeper  and  rounder,  and  his  words  carried  more 
weight.  The  good  vicar,  who  had  seen  several  gen 
erations  of  students,  already  distinguished  in  John 
Short  the  budding  "don,"  and  rubbed  his  hands 
with  great  satisfaction. 

John  asked  few  questions  but  found  himself  obliged 
to  answer  many  concerning  his  recent  efforts.  He 
would  have  liked  to  say  something  about  Mrs.  God- 
dard,  but  he  remembered  with  some  awe  and  much 
aversion  the  circumstances  in  which  he  had  last 
quitted  the  vicarage,  and  he  held  his  peace ;  whereby 
he  again  rose  in  Mrs.  Ambrose's  estimation.  He 
made  up  for  his  silence  by  speaking  effusively  of  the 
squire's  kindness  in  asking  him  to  the  Hall;  forget 
ting  perhaps  the  relief  he  had  felt  when  he  escaped 
from  Billingsfield  after  Christinas  without  being 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       287 

again  obliged  to  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Juxon. 
Things  looked  very  differently  now,  however.  He 
felt  himself  to  be  somebody  in  the  world,  and  that 
distressing  sense  of  inferiority  which  had  perhaps 
been  at  the  root  of  his  jealousy  against  the  squire 
was  gone,  swallowed  in  the  sense  of  triumph.  His 
face  was  pale,  perhaps,  from  overwork,  but  there  was 
a  brilliancy  in  his  eyes  and  an  incisiveness  in  his 
speech  which  came  from  the  confidence  of  victory. 
He  now  desired  nothing  more  than  to  meet  the  squire, 
feeling  sure  that  he  should  receive  his  congratula 
tions,  and  though  he  stayed  some  hours  in  conversa 
tion  with  his  old  friends,  in  imagination  he  was 
already  at  the  Hall.  The  squire  had  not  come  down 
to  meet  him,  as  he  had  proposed,  but  he  had  sent  his 
outlandish  American  gig  with  his  groom  to  fetch 
John.  While  he  was  at  the  vicarage  the  latter  was 
probably  too  much  occupied  with  conversation  to 
notice  that  Mr.  Ambrose  seemed  preoccupied  and 
changed,  and  the  vicar  was  to  some  extent  recalled 
to  his  usual  manner  by  the  presence  of  his  pupil. 
Mrs.  Ambrose  had  taxed  her  husband  with  conceal 
ing  something  from  her  ever  since  the  previous  day, 
but  the  good  man  was  obstinate  and  merely  said  that 
he  felt  unaccountably  nervous  and  irritable,  and 
begged  her  to  excuse  his  mood.  Mrs.  Ambrose  post 
poned  her  cross-examination  until  a  more  favourable 
opportunity  should  present  itself. 

John  got  into  the  gig  and  drove  away.  He  was 
to  return  with  the  squire  to  dinner  in  the  evening, 
and  he  fully  expected  that  Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie 
would  be  of  the  party  —  it  seemed  hardly  likely  that 
they  should  be  omitted.  Indeed,  soon  after  John 
had  left  a  note  arrived  at  the  vicarage  explaining 


288       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

that  Mrs.  Goddard  was  much  better  and  would  cer 
tainly  come,  according  to  Mrs.  Ambrose's  very  kind 
invitation. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  the  meeting  which 
took  place  between  Mr.  Juxon  and  John  Short.  The 
squire  was  hospitable  in  the  extreme  and  expressed 
his  great  satisfaction  at  having  John  under  his  own 
roof  at  last.  He  was  perhaps,  like  the  vicar,  a  little 
nervous,  but  the  young  man  did  not  notice  it,  being 
much  absorbed  by  the  enjoyment  of  his  good  fortune 
and  of  the  mental  rest  he  so  greatly  needed.  Mr. 
Juxon  congratulated  him  warmly  and  expressed  a 
hope,  amounting  to  certainty,  that  John  might  actu 
ally  be  at  the  head  of  the  Tripos;  to  which  John 
modestly  replied  that  he  would  be  quite  satisfied  to 
be  in  the  first  ten,  knowing  in  his  heart  that  he 
should  be  most  bitterly  disappointed  if  he  were 
second  to  any  one.  He  sat  opposite  to  his  host  in  a 
deep  chair  beside  the  fire  in  the  library  and  revelled 
in  comfort  and  ease,  enjoying  every  trifle  that  fell  in 
his  way,  feeling  only  a  very  slight  diffidence  in 
regard  to  himself  for  the  present  and  none  at  all  for 
the  future.  The  squire  was  so  cordial  that  he  felt 
himself  thoroughly  at  home.  Indeed  Mr.  Juxon 
already  rejoiced  at  his  wisdom  in  asking  John  to  the 
Hall.  The  lad  was  strong,  hopeful,  well-balanced 
in  every  respect  and  his  presence  was  an  admirable 
tonic  to  the  almost  morbid  state  of  anxiety  in  which 
the  squire  had  lived  ever  since  his  interview  with 
Policeman  Gall,  two  days  before.  In  the  sunshine 
of  John's  young  personality,  fears  grew  small  and 
hope  grew  big.  The  ideas  which  had  passed  through 
Mr.  Juxon 's  brain  on  the  previous  evening,  just  after 
Mr.  Ambrose  had  warned  him  of  Goddard's  inten- 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       289 

tions,  seemed  now  like  the  evil  shadows  of  a  night 
mare.  All  apprehension  lest  the  convict  should 
attempt  to  execute  his  threats  disappeared  like  dark 
ness  before  daylight,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  or 
two  the  squire  found  himself  laughing  and  chatting 
with  his  guest  as  though  there  were  no  such  things 
as  forgery  or  convicts  in  the  world.  The  afternoon 
passed  very  pleasantly  between  the  examination  of 
Mr.  Juxon's  treasures  and  the  conversation  those 
objects  elicited.  For  John,  who  was  an  accomplished 
scholar,  had  next  to  no  knowledge  of  bibliology  and 
took  delight  in  seeing  for  the  first  time  many  a  rare 
edition  which  he  had  heard  mentioned  or  had  read  of 
in  the  course  of  his  studies.  He  would  not  have 
believed  that  he  could  be  now  talking  on  such 
friendly  terms  with  a  man  for  whom  he  had  once 
felt  the  strongest  antipathy,  and  Mr.  Juxon  on  his 
part  felt  that  in  their  former  meetings  he  had  not 
done  full  justice  to  the  young  man's  undoubted 
talents. 

As  they  drove  down  to  the  vicarage  that  evening 
Mrs.  Goddard's  name  was  mentioned  for  the  first 
time.  John,  with  a  fine  affectation  of  indifference, 
asked  how  she  was. 

"She  has  not  been  very  well  lately,"  answered  Mr. 
Juxon. 

"What  has  been  the  matter?"  inquired  John,  who 
could  not  see  his  companion's  face  in  the  dark  shade 
of  the  trees. 

"Headache,  I  believe,"  returned  the  squire  laconi 
cally,  and  silence  ensued  for  a  few  moments.  "I 
should  not  wonder  if  it  rained  again  this  evening," 
he  added  presently  as  they  passed  through  the  park 
gate,  out  into  the  road.  The  sky  was  black  and  it 


290  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

was  hard  to  see  anything  beyond  the  yellow  streak  of 
light  which  fell  from  the  lamps  and  ran  along  the 
road  before  the  gig. 

"If  it  turns  out  a  fine  night,  don't  come  for  us. 
We  will  walk  home,"  said  the  squire  to  the  groom 
as  they  descended  before  the  vicarage  and  Stamboul, 
who  had  sat  on  the  floor  between  them,  sprang  down 
to  the  ground. 

John  was  startled  when  he  met  Mrs.  Goddard.  He 
was  amazed  at  the  change  in  her  appearance  for  which 
no  one  had  prepared  him.  She  met  him  indeed  very 
cordially  but  he  felt  as  though  she  were  not  the  same 
woman  he  had  known  so  short  a  time  before.  There 
was  still  in  her  face  that  delicate  pathetic  expression 
which  had  at  first  charmed  him,  there  was  still  the 
same  look  in  her  eyes ;  but  what  had  formerly  seemed 
so  attractive  seemed  now  exaggerated.  Her  cheeks 
looked  wari  and  hollow  and  there  were  deep  shadows 
about  her  eyes  and  temples ;  her  lips  had  lost  their 
colour  and  the  lines  about  her  mouth  had  suddenly 
become  apparent  where  John  had  not  before  suspected 
them.  She  looked  ten  years  older  as  she  put  her  thin 
hand  in  his  and  smiled  pleasantly  at  his  greeting. 
Some  trite  phrase  about  the  "ravages  of  time  "  crossed 
John's  mind  and  gave  him  a  disagreeable  sensation, 
for  which  it  was  hard  to  account.  He  felt  as  though 
his  dream  were  suddenly  dead  and  a  strange  reality 
had  taken  life  in  its  place.  Could  this  be  she  to 
whom  he  had  written  verses  by  the  score,  at  whose 
smile  he  had  swelled  with  pride,  at  whose  careless 
laugh  he  had  trembled  with  shame?  She  was  terri 
bly  changed,  she  looked  positively  old  —  what  John 
called  old.  As  he  sat  by  her  side  talking  and  won 
dering  whether  he  would  fall  back  into  those  same 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  291 

grooves  of  conversation  he  had  associated  with  her 
formerly,  he  felt  something  akin  to  pity  for  her, 
which  he  had  certainly  never  expected  to  feel.  She 
was  not  the  same  as  before  —  even  the  tone  of  her 
voice  was  different;  she  was  gentle,  pathetic,  en 
dowed  even  now  with  many  charms,  but  she  was  not 
the  woman  he  had  dreamed  of  and  tried  to  speak  to 
of  the  love  he  fancied  was  in  his  heart.  She  talked 
—  yes ;  but  there  were  long  pauses,  and  her  eyes  wan 
dered  strangely  from  him,  often  towards  the  windows 
of  the  vicarage  drawing-room,  often  towards  the 
doors ;  her  answers  were  not  always  to  the  point  and 
her  interest  seemed  to  flag  in  what  was  said.  John 
could  not  fail  to  notice  too  that  both  Mr.  Ambrose 
and  Mr.  Juxon  treated  her  with  the  kind  of  attention 
which  is  bestowed  upon  invalids,  and  the  vicar's  wife 
was  constantly  doing  something  to  make  her  comfort 
able,  offering  her  a  footstool,  shading  the  light  from 
her  eyes,  asking  if  she  felt  any  draught  where  she 
sat.  These  were  things  no  one  had  formerly  thought 
of  doing  for  Mrs.  Goddard,  who  in  spite  of  her  sad 
face  had  been  used  to  laugh  merrily  enough  with  the 
rest,  and  whose  lithe  figure  had  seemed  to  John  the 
embodiment  of  youthful  activity.  At  last  he  ven 
tured  to  ask  her  a  question. 

"Have  you  been  ill,  Mrs.  Goddard?"  he  inquired 
in  a  voice  full  of  interest.  Her  soft  eyes  glanced 
uneasily  at  him.  He  was  now  the  only  one  of  the 
party  who  was  not  in  some  degree  acquainted  with 
her  troubles. 

"  Oh  no !  "  she  answered  nervously.  "  Only  a  lit 
tle  headache.  It  always  makes  me  quite  wretched 
when  I  have  it." 

"Yes.  I  often  have  headaches,  too,"  answered 
John.  "The  squire  told  me  as  we  came  down." 


292  A   TALE   OF   A    LONELY   PARISH. 

"What  did  he  tell  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Goddard  so 
quickly  as  to  startle  her  companion. 

"Oh  —  only  that  you  had  not  been  very  well. 
Where  is  it  that  you  suffer?"  he  asked  sympatheti 
cally.  "  I  think  it  is  worst  when  it  seems  to  be  in 
the  very  centre  of  one's  head,  like  a  red-hot  nail 
being  driven  in  with  a  hammer  —  is  that  like  what 
you  feel?" 

"I  —  yes,  I  daresay.  I  don't  quite  know,"  she 
answered,  her  eyes  wandering  uneasily  about  the 
room.  "  I  suppose  you  have  dreadful  headaches  over 
your  work,  do  you  not,  Mr.  Short?"  she  added 
quickly,  feeling  that  she  must  say  something. 

"Oh,  it  is  all  over  now,"  said  John  rather  proudly. 
But  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  he  said  to  himself 
that  this  meeting  was  not  precisely  what  he  had  an 
ticipated  ;  the  subject  of  headaches  might  have  a  fine 
interest  in  its  way,  but  he  had  expected  to  have 
talked  of  more  tender  things.  To  his  own  great 
surprise  he  felt  no  desire  to  do  so,  however.  He  had 
not  recovered  from  the  shock  of  seeing  that  Mrs. 
Goddard  had  grown  old. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  kindly.  "How  glad  you  must 
be !  To  have  done  so  splendidly  too  —  you  must  feel 
that  you  have  realised  a  magnificent  dream." 

"No, "said  John.  "I  cannot  say  I  do.  I  have 
done  the  thing  I  meant  to  do,  or  I  have  good  reason 
to  believe  that  I  have ;  but  I  have  not  realised  my 
dream.  I  shall  never  write  any  more  odes,  Mrs. 
Goddard." 

"Why  not?  Oh,  you  mean  to  me,  Mr.  Short?" 
she  added  with  something  of  her  old  manner.  "  Well, 
you  know,  it  is  much  better  that  you  should  not." 

"Perhaps  so,"   answered  John  rather   sadly.     "I 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  293 

don't  know.  Frankly,  Mrs.  Goddard,  did  not  you 
sometimes  think  I  was  very  foolish  last  Christmas?" 

"Very,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  kindly.  "But 
I  think  you  have  changed.  I  think  you  are  more  of  a 
man,  now  —  you  have  something  more  serious  —  " 

"I  used  to  think  I  was  very  serious,  and  so  I  was," 
said  John,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  refers  to  the 
follies  of  his  long  past  youth.  "  Do  you  remember 
how  angry  I  was  when  you  wanted  me  to  skate  with 
Miss  Nellie?" 

"Oh,  I  only  said  that  to  teaze  you,"  Mrs.  Goddard 
answered.  "  I  daresay  you  would  be  angry  now,  if  I 
suggested  the  same  thing." 

"No,"  said  John  quietly.  "I  do  not  believe  I 
should  be.  As  you  say,  I  feel  very  much  older  now 
than  I  did  then." 

"The  older  we  grow  the  more  we  like  youth,"  said 
Mary  Goddard,  unconsciously  uttering  one  of  the  fun 
damental  truths  of  human  nature,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  precisely  striking  the  current  of  John's 
thoughts  that  he  started.  He  was  wondering  within 
himself  why  it  was  that  she  now  seemed  too  old  for 
him,  whereas  a  few  short  months  ago  she  had  seemed 
to  be  of  his  own  age. 

"  How  true  that  is !  "  he  exclaimed.  Mrs.  Goddard 
laughed  faintly. 

"  You  are  not  old  enough  to  have  reached  that  point 
yet,  Mr.  Short,"  she  said.  "Really,  here  we  are 
moralising  like  a  couple  of  old  philosophers !  " 

"This  is  a  moralising  season,"  answered  John. 
"When  we  last  met,  it  was  all  holly-berries  and 
Christmas  and  plum-pudding." 

"How  long  ago  that  seems!"  exclaimed  the  poor 
lady  with  a  sigh. 


294  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"Ages!"  echoed  John,  sighing  in  his  turn,  but 
not  so  much  for  sadness,  it  may  be,  as  from  relief 
that  the  great  struggle  was  over.  That  time  of 
anxiety  and  terrible  effort  seemed  indeed  very  far 
removed  from  him,  but  its  removal  was  a  cause  of 
joy  rather  than  of  sadness.  He  sighed  like  a  man 
who,  sitting  over  his  supper,  remembers  the  hard 
fought  race  he  has  won  in  the  afternoon,  feeling  yet 
in  his  limbs  the  ability  to  race  and  win  again  but 
feeling  in  his  heart  the  delicious  consciousness  that 
the  question  of  his  superiority  has  been  decided 
beyond  all  dispute. 

"And  now  you  will  stay  here  a  long  time,  of 
course,"  said  Mrs.  Goddard  presently. 

"I  am  stopping  at  the  Hall,  just  now,"  said  John 
with  a  distinct  sense  of  the  importance  of  the  fact, 
"  and  after  a  week  I  shall  stay  here  a  few  days.  Then 
I  shall  go  to  London  to  see  my  father." 

"No  one  will  be  so  glad  as  he  to  hear  of  your 
success." 

"  No  indeed.  I  really  think  it  is  more  for  his  sake 
that  I  want  to  be  actually  first,"  said  John.  "Do 
you  know,  I  have  so  often  thought  how  he  will  look 
when  I  meet  him  and  tell  him  I  am  the  senior 
classic." 

John's  voice  trembled  and  as  Mrs.  Goddard  looked 
at  him,  she  thought  she  saw  a  moisture  in  his  eyes. 
It  pleased  her  to  see  it,  for  it  showed  that  John  Short 
had  more  heart  than  she  had  imagined. 

"I  can  fancy  that,"  she  said,  warmly.  "I  envy 
you  that  moment." 

Presently  the  squire  came  over  to  where  they  were 
sitting  and  joined  them;  and  then  Mrs.  Ambrose 
spoke  to  John,  and  Nellie  came  and  asked  him  ques- 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

tions.  Strange  to  say  John  felt  none  of  that  annoy 
ance  which  he  formerly  felt  when  his  conversations 
with  Mrs.  Goddard  were  interrupted,  and  he  talked 
with  Nellie  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  quite  as  readily  as 
with  her.  He  felt  very  calm  and  happy  that  night, 
as  though  he  had  done  with  the  hard  labour  of  life. 
In  half  an  hour  he  had  realised  that  he  was  no  more 
in  love  with  Mrs.  Goddard  than  he  was  with  Mrs. 
Ambrose,  and  he  was  trying  to  explain  to  himself  how 
it  was  that  he  had  ever  believed  in  such  a  palpable 
absurdity.  Love  was  doubtless  blind,  he  thought, 
but  he  was  surety  not  so  blind  as  to  overlook  the  evi 
dences  of  Mrs.  Goddard's  age.  All  the  dreams  of 
that  morning  faded  away  before  the  sight  of  her  face, 
and  so  deep  is  the  turpitude  of  the  best  of  human 
hearts  that  John  was  almost  ashamed  of  having  once 
thought  he  loved  her.  That  was  probably  the  best 
possible  proof  that  his  love  had  been  but  a  boyish 
fancy. 

What  the  little  party  at  the  vicarage  would  have 
been  like,  if  John's  presence  had  not  animated  it, 
would  be  hard  to  say.  The  squire  and  Mr.  Ambrose 
treated  Mrs.  Goddard  with  the  sort  of  paternal  but 
solemn  care  which  is  usually  bestowed  either  upon 
great  invalids  or  upon  persons  bereaved  of  some  very 
dear  relation.  The  two  elder  men  occasionally  looked 
at  her  and  exchanged  glances  when  they  were  not 
observed  by  Mrs.  Ambrose,  wondering  perhaps  what 
would  next  befall  the  unfortunate  lady  and  whether 
she  could  bear  much  more  of  the  excitement  and 
anxiety  to  which  she  had  of  late  been  subjected.  On 
the  whole  the  conversation  was  far  from  being  lively, 
and  Mrs.  Goddard  herself  felt  that  it  was  a  relief 
when  the  hour  came  for  going  home. 


296  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

The  vicar  had  ordered  his  dog-cart  for  her  and 
Nellie,  but  as  the  night  had  turned  out  better  than 
had  been  expected  Mr.  Juxon's  groom  had  not  come 
down  from  the  Hall.  Both  he  and  John  would  be 
glad  of  the  walk ;  it  had  not  rained  for  two  days  and 
the  roads  were  dry. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  squire,  as  they  rose  to  take 
their  leave,  "  Mr.  Short  had  better  go  as  far  as  the 
cottage  in  the  dog-cart,  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard  home. 
I  will  go  ahead  on  foot  —  I  shall  probably  be  there 
as  soon  as  you.  There  is  not  room  for  us  all,  and 
somebody  must  go  with  her,  you  know.  Besides," 
he  added,  "I  have  got  Stamboul  with  me." 

Mrs.  Goddard,  who  was  standing  beside  the  squire, 
laid  her  hand  beseechingly  upon  his  arm. 

"Oh,  pray  don't,"  she  said  in  low  voice.  "Why 
have  you  not  got  your  carriage  ?  " 

"Never  mind  me,"  he  answered  in  the  same  tone. 
"I  am  all  right,  I  like  to  walk." 

Before  she  could  say  anything  more,  he  had  shaken 
hands  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  was  gone. 
Perhaps  in  his  general  determination  to  be  good  to 
everybody  he  fancied  that  John  would  enjoy  the  short 
drive  with  Mrs.  Goddard  better  than  the  walk  with 
himself. 

But  when  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Goddard  grew  very 
nervous.  One  of  her  wraps  could  not  be  found,  and 
while  search  was  being  made  for  it  the  motherly  Mrs. 
Ambrose  insisted  upon  giving  her  something  hot,  in 
the  way  of  brandy  and  water.  She  looked  very  ill, 
but  showed  the  strongest  desire  to  go.  It  was  no 
matter  about  the  shawl,  she  said ;  Mr.  Ambrose  could 
send  it  in  the  morning;  but  the  thing  was  found  and 
at  last  Mrs.  Goddard  and  Nellie  and  John  got  into 


A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  297 

the  dog-cart  with  old  Reynolds  and  drove  off.     All 
these  things  consumed  some  time. 

The  squire  on  the  other  hand  strode  briskly  forward 
towards  the  cottage,  not  wishing  to  keep  John  wait 
ing  for  him.  As  he  walked  his  mind  wandered  back 
to  the  consideration  of  the  almost  tragic  events  which 
were  occurring  in  the  peaceful  village.  He  forgot 
all  about  John,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  half  moon 
which  struggled  to  give  some  light  through  the  driv 
ing  clouds;  he  fell  to  thinking  of  Mrs.  Goddard  and 
to  wondering  where  her  husband  might  be  lying 
hidden.  The  road  was  lonely  and  he  walked  fast, 
with  Stamboul  close  at  his  heel.  The  dog-cart  did 
not  overtake  him  before  he  reached  the  cottage,  and 
he  forgot  all  about  it.  By  sheer  force  of  habit  he 
opened  the  white  gate  and,  closing  it  behind  him, 
entered  the  park  alone. 


298       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

JOHN'S  impression  of  Mrs.  Goddard  was  strength 
ened  by  the  scene  at  the  vicarage  at  the  moment  of 
leaving.  The  extraordinary  nervousness  she  be 
trayed,  the  anxiety  for  her  welfare  shown  by  Mrs. 
Ambrose  and  the  grave  face  of  the  vicar  all  fa 
voured  the  idea  that  she  had  become  an  invalid  since 
he  had  last  met  her.  He  himself  fell  into  the  man 
ner  of  those  about  him  and  spoke  in  low  tones  and 
moved  delicately  as  though  fearing  to  offend  her  sen 
sitive  nerves.  The  vicar  alone  understood  the  situa 
tion  and  had  been  very  much  surprised  at  the  squire's 
sudden  determination  to  walk  home ;  he  would  gladly 
have  seized  his  hat  and  run  after  his  friend,  but  he 
feared  Mrs.  Ambrose's  curiosity  and  moreover  on 
reflection  felt  sure  that  the  dog-cart  would  overtake 
Mr.  Juxon  before  he  was  half  way  to  the  cottage. 
He  was  very  far  from  suspecting  him  of  the  absence 
of  mind  which  he  actually  displayed,  but  it  was  a 
great  relief  to  him  to  see  the  little  party  safe  in  the 
dog-cart  and  on  the  way  homeward. 

Mrs.  Goddard  was  on  the  front  seat  with  old  Rey 
nolds,  and  John,  who  would  have  preferred  to  sit  by 
her  side  a  few  months  ago,  was  glad  to  find  himself 
behind  with  Nellie.  It  was  a  curious  instinct,  but 
he  felt  it  strongly  and  was  almost  grateful  to  the  old 
man  for  stolidly  keeping  his  seat.  So  he  sat  beside 
Nellie  and  talked  to  her,  to  the  child's  intense 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  299 

delight ;  she  had  not  enjoyed  the  evening  very  much, 
for  she  felt  the  general  sense  of  oppression  as  keenly 
as  children  always  feel  such  things,  and  she  had  long 
exhausted  the  slender  stock  of  illustrated  books  which 
lay  upon  the  table  in  the  vicarage  drawing-room. 

"There  is  no  more  skating  now,"  said  John. 
"  What  do  you  do  to  amuse  yourselves  ?  " 

"I  am  studying  history  with  mamma,"  answered 
Nellie,  "  and  that  takes  ever  so  much  time,  you  know. 
And  then  —  oh,  we  are  beginning  to  think  of  the 
spring,  and  we  look  after  the  violet  plants  in  the 
frames." 

"It  does  not  feel  much  like  spring,"  remarked 
John. 

"No  —  and  mamma  has  not  been  well  lately,  so 
we  have  not  done  much  of  anything." 

"Has  she  been  ill  long?"  asked  John. 

"  No  —  oh  no !  Only  the  last  two  or  three  days, 
ever  since  —  "  Nellie  stopped  herself.  Her  mother 
had  told  her  not  to  mention  the  tramp's  visit. 

"Ever  since  when?"  asked  John,  becoming  sud 
denly  interested. 

"  Ever  since  the  last  time  the  Ambroses  came  to 
tea,"  said  Nellie  with  a  readiness  beyond  her  years. 
"But  she  looks  dreadfully,  does  not  she?" 

"Dreadfully,"  answered  John.  Then,  leaning 
back  and  turning  his  head  he  spoke  to  Mrs.  Goddard. 
"I  hope  you  are  quite  warm  enough?"  he  said. 

"Quite  —  thanks,"  answered  she,  but  her  voice 
sounded  tremulous  in  the  night.  It  might  have  been 
the  shaking  of  the  dog- cart.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  cottage.  John  sprang 
to  the  ground  and  almost  lifted  Mrs.  Goddard  from 
the  high  seat. 


300  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Juxon  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

John  looked  round,  peering  into  the  gloom.  A 
black  cloud  driven  by  the  strong  east  wind  was  pass 
ing  over  the  moon,  and  for  some  moments  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  see  anything.  The  squire  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  John  turned  and  helped  Nellie 
off  the  back  seat  of  the  dog-cart. 

"I  am  afraid  we  must  have  passed  him,"  he  said 
quietly.  Formerly  Mrs.  Goddard's  tone  of  anxiety 
as  she  asked  for  the  squire  would  have  roused  John's 
resentment ;  he  now  thought  nothing  of  it.  Reynolds 
prepared  to  move  off. 

"Won't  you  please  wait  a  moment,  Reynolds?" 
said  Mrs.  Goddard,  going  close  to  the  old  man.  She 
could  not  have  told  why  she  asked  him  to  stay,  it  was 
a  nervous  impulse. 

"Why?"  asked  John.  "You  know  I  am  going  to 
the  Hall." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  I  only  thought,  perhaps,  you  and 
Mr.  Juxon  would  like  to  drive  up  —  it  is  so  dark. 
I  am  sure  Mr.  Ambrose  would  not  mind  you  taking 
the  gentlemen  up  to  the  Hall,  Reynolds?" 

"No  m'm.  I'm  quite  sure  as  he  wouldn't,"  ex 
claimed  Reynolds  with  great  alacrity.  He  immedi 
ately  had  visions  of  a  pint  of  beer  in  the  Hall  kitchen. 

"  You  do  not  think  Mr.  Juxon  may  have  gone  on 
alone,  Mr.  Short?"  said  Mrs.  Goddard,  leaning  upon 
the  wicket  gate.  Her  face  looked  very  pale  in  the 
gloom. 

"No  —  it  would  be  very  odd  if  he  did,"  replied 
John,  who  had  his  hands  in  his  greatcoat  pockets  and 
slowly  stamped  one  foot  after  another  on  the  hard 
ground,  to  keep  himself  warm. 

"Then  we  must  have  passed  him  on  the  road," 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       301 

said  Mrs.  Goddard.  "But  I  was  so  sure  I  saw 
nobody  —  " 

"I  think  he  will  come  presently,"  answered  John 
in  a  reassuring  tone.  "  Why  do  you  wait,  Mrs.  God 
dard  ?  You  must  be  cold,  and  it  is  dangerous  for  you 
to  be  out  here.  Don't  wait,  Reynolds,"  he  added; 
"we  will  walk  up." 

"Oh  please  don't,"  cried  Mrs.  Goddard,  implor 
ingly. 

John  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise.  The  cloud 
suddenly  passed  from  before  the  moon  and  he  could 
see  her  anxious  upturned  face  quite  plainly.  He 
could  not  in  the  least  understand  the  cause  of  her 
anxiety,  but  he  supposed  her  nervousness  was  con 
nected  with  her  indisposition.  Reynolds  on  his  part, 
being  anxious  for  beer,  showed  no  disposition  to 
move,  but  sat  with  stolid  indifference,  loosely  hold 
ing  the  reins  while  Strawberry,  the  old  mare,  hung 
down  her  head  and  stamped  from  time  to  time  in  a 
feeble  and  antiquated  fashion.  For  some  minutes 
there  was  total  silence.  Not  a  step  was  to  be  heard 
upon  the  road,  not  a  sound  of  any  kind,  save  the 
strong  east  wind  rushing  past  the  cottage  and 
losing  itself  among  the  withered  oaks  of  the  park 
opposite. 

Suddenly  a  deep  and  bell-mouthed  note  resounded 
through  the  air.  Strawberry  started  in  the  shafts 
and  trembled  violently. 

"Stamboul!  Stamboul!"  The  squire's  ringing 
voice  was  heard  far  up  the  park.  The  bloodhound's 
distant  baying  suddenly  ceased.  John  thought  he 
heard  a  fainter  cry,  inarticulate,  and  full  of  distress, 
through  the  sighing  wind.  Then  there  was  silence 
again.  Mrs.  Goddard  leaned  back  against  the  wicket 


302  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

gate,  and  Nellie,  startled  by  the  noises,  pressed  close 
to  her  mother's  side. 

"Why  —  he  has  gone  up  the  park!"  exclaimed 
John  in  great  surprise.  "He  was  calling  to  his 
dog-" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Short!  "  cried  Mrs.  Goddard  in  agonised 
tones,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak,  "  I  am  sure  some 
thing  dreadful  has  happened  —  do  go,  Mr.  Short  — 
do  go  and  see  —  " 

Something  of  the  extreme  alarm  that  sounded  in 
her  voice  seized  upon  John. 

"Stay  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  Reynolds,'*  he  said 
quickly  and  darted  across  the  road  towards  the  park 
gate.  John  was  strong  and  active.  He  laid  his 
hands  upon  the  highest  rails  and  vaulted  lightly 
over,  then  ran  at  the  top  of  his  speed  up  the  dark 
avenue. 

Mr.  Juxon,  in  his  absence  of  mind,  had  gone 
through  the  gate  alone,  swinging  his  blackthorn 
stick  in  his  hand,  Stamboul  stalking  at  his  heel  in 
the  gloom.  He  was  a  fearless  man  and  the  presence 
of  John  during  the  afternoon  had  completely  dis 
solved  that  nervous  presentiment  of  evil  he  had  felt 
before  his  guest's  coming.  But  in  the  short  walk  of 
scarcely  half  a  mile,  from  the  vicarage  to  the  cottage, 
his  thoughts  had  become  entirely  absorbed  in  con 
sidering  Mrs.  Goddard's  strange  position,  and  for  the 
moment  John  was  quite  forgotten.  He  entered  the 
park  and  the  long  iron  latch  of  the  wooden  gate  fell 
into  its  socket  behind  him  with  a  sharp  click.  Mr. 
Juxon  walked  quickly  on  and  Stamboul  trod  noise 
lessly  behind  him.  At  about  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  gate  the  avenue  turned  sharply  to  the  right,  wind 
ing  about  a  little  elevation  in  the  ground,  where  the 


A  TALE   OF  A   LONELY  PAKISH.  303 

trees  stood  thicker  than  elsewhere.  As  he  came  tow 
ards  this  hillock  the  strong  east  wind  blew  sharply 
behind  him.  Had  the  wind  been  in  the  opposite 
direction,  Stamboul's  sharp  nostrils  would  have 
scented  danger.  As  it  was  he  gave  no  sign  but 
stalked  solemnly  at  the  squire's  heels.  The  faint 
light  of  the  half  moon  was  obscured  at  that  moment, 
as  has  been  seen,  by  a  sweeping  cloud.  The  squire 
turned  to  the  right  and  tramped  along  the  hard  road. 
At  the  darkest  spot  in  the  way  a  man  sprang  out 
suddenly  before  him  and  struck  a  quick  blow  at  his 
head  with  something  heavy.  But  it  was  very  dark. 
The  blow  was  aimed  at  his  head,  but  fell  upon  the 
heavy  padded  frieze  of  his  ulster  greatcoat,  grazing 
the  brim  of  his  hat  as  it  passed  and  knocking  it  off  his 
head.  Mr.  Juxon  staggered  and  reeled  to  one  side. 
At  the  same  instant  —  it  all  happened  in  the  space  of 
two  seconds,  Stamboul  sprang  past  his  master  and  his 
bulk,  striking  the  squire  at  the  shoulder  just  as  he 
was  staggering  from  the  blow  he  had  received,  sent 
him  rolling  into  the  ditch;  by  the  same  cause  the 
hound's  direction  as  he  leaped  was  just  so  changed 
that  he  missed  his  aim  and  bounded  past  the  mur 
derer  into  the  darkness.  Before  the  gigantic  beast 
could  recover  himself  and  turn  to  spring  again, 
Walter  Goddard,  who  had  chanced  never  to  see 
Stamboul  and  little  suspected  his  presence,  leaped 
the  ditch  and  fled  rapidly  through  the  dark  shadow. 
But  death  was  at  his  heels.  Before  the  squire,  who 
was  very  little  hurt,  could  get  upon  his  feet,  the 
bloodhound  had  found  the  scent  and,  uttering  his 
deep-mouthed  baying  note,  sprang  upon  the  track  of 
the  flying  man.  Mr.  Juxon  got  across  the  ditch  and 
followed  him  into  the  gloom. 


304       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"  Stamboul !  Stamboul !  "  he  roared  as  he  ran.  But 
before  he  had  gone  thirty  yards  he  heard  a  heavy  fall. 
The  hound's  cry  ceased  and  a  short  scream  broke  the 
silence. 

A  moment  later  the  squire  was  dragging  the  in 
furiated  animal  from  the  prostrate  body  of  Walter 
Goddard.  Stamboul  had  tasted  blood ;  it  was  no  easy 
matter  to  make  him  relinquish  his  prey.  The  cloud 
passed  from  the  moon,  driven  before  the  blast,  and  a 
ray  of  light  fell  through  the  trees  upon  the  scene. 
Juxon  stood  wrestling  with  his  hound,  holding  to 
his  heavy  collar  with  both  hands  with  all  his  might. 
He  dared  not  let  go  for  an  instant,  well  knowing 
that  the  frenzied  beast  would  tear  his  victim  limb 
from  limb.  But  Juxon's  hands  were  strong,  and 
though  Stamboul  writhed  and  his  throat  rattled  he 
could  not  free  himself.  The  squire  glanced  at  the 
body  of  the  fallen  man,  just  visible  in  the  flickering 
moonlight.  Walter  Goddard  lay  quite  still  upon 
his  back.  If  he  was  badly  wounded  it  was  not  pos 
sible  to  say  where  the  wound  was. 

It  was  a  terrible  moment.  Mr.  Juxon  felt  that  he 
could  not  leave  the  man  thus,  not  knowing  whether 
he  were  alive  or  dead ;  and  yet  while  all  his  strength 
was  exerted  to  the  full  in  controlling  the  bloodhound, 
it  was  impossible  to  approach  a  step  nearer.  He  was 
beginning  to  think  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  take 
Stamboul  to  the  Hall  and  return  again  to  the  scene 
of  the  disaster. 

"  Mr.  Juxon !  Juxon !  Juxon !  "  John  was  shout 
ing  as  he  ran  up  the  park. 

"This  way!  look  sharp!"  yelled  the  squire,  fore 
seeing  relief.  John's  quick  footsteps  rang  on  the 
hard  road.  The  squire  called  again  and  in  a  moment 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  305 

the  young  man  had  joined  him  and  stood  horror- 
struck  at  what  he  saw. 

"  Don't  touch  the  dog !  "  cried  the  squire.  "  Don't 
come  near  him,  I  say! "  he  added  as  John  came  for 
ward.  "There  —  there  has  been  an  accident,  Mr. 
Short,"  he  added  in  calmer  tones.  "Would  you 
mind  seeing  if  the  fellow  is  alive  ?  " 

John  was  too  much  startled  to  say  anything,  but 
he  went  and  knelt  down  by  Goddard's  body  and 
looked  into  his  face. 

"Feel  his  pulse,"  said  the  squire.  "Listen  at  his 
heart."  To  him  it  seemed  a  very  simple  matter  to 
ascertain  whether  a  man  were  alive  or  dead.  But 
John  was  nervous ;  he  had  never  seen  a  dead  man  in 
his  life  and  felt  that  natural  repulsion  to  approach 
ing  death  which  is  common  to  all  living  creatures. 
There  was  no  help  for  it,  however,  and  he  took 
"Walter  Goddard's  limp  hand  in  his  and  tried  to  find 
his  pulse;  he  could  not  distinguish  any  beating. 
The  hand  fell  nerveless  to  the  ground. 

"I  think  he  is  dead,"  said  John  very  softly,  and 
he  rose  to  his  feet  and  drew  back  a  little  way  from 
the  body. 

"Then  just  wait  five  minutes  for  me,  if  you  do 
not  mind,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  and  he  turned  away 
dragging  the  reluctant  and  still  struggling  Stamboul 
by  his  side. 

John  shuddered  when  he  was  left  alone.  It  was  in 
deed  a  dismal  scene  enough.  At  his  feet  lay  Walter 
Goddard's  body,  faintly  illuminated  by  the  strug 
gling  moonbeams ;  all  around  and  overhead  the  east 
wind  was  howling  and  whistling  and  sighing  in  the 
dry  oak  branches,  whirling  hither  and  thither  the  few 
brown  leaves  that  had  clung  to  their  hold  throughout 


306  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

the  long  winter;  the  sound  of  the  squire's  rapidly 
retreating  footsteps  grew  more  faint  in  the  distance ; 
John  felt  that  he  was  alone  and  was  very  uncomfort 
able.  He  would  have  liked  to  go  back  to  the  cottage 
and  tell  Mrs.  Goddard  of  what  had  happened,  and 
that  Mr.  Juxon  was  safe;  but  he  thought  the  squire 
might  return  and  find  that  he  had  left  his  post  and 
accuse  him  of  cowardice.  He  drew  back  from  the 
man's  body  and  sheltered  himself  from  the  wind, 
leaning  against  the  broad  trunk  of  an  old  oak  tree. 
He  had  not  stood  thus  many  minutes  when  he  heard 
the  sound  of  wheels  upon  the  hard  road.  It  might 
be  Mrs.  Goddard,  he  thought.  With  one  more  glance 
at  the  prostrate  body,  he  turned  away  and  hurried 
through  the  trees  towards  the  avenue.  The  bright 
lamps  of  the  dog-cart  were  almost  close  before  him. 
He  shouted  to  Reynolds. 

"Whoa,  January!"  ejaculated  that  ancient  func 
tionary  as  he  pulled  up  Strawberry  close  to  John 
Short.  Why  the  natives  of  Essex  and  especially  of 
Billingsfield  habitually  address  their  beasts  of  bur 
den  as  "  January "  is  a  matter  best  left  to  the  dis 
crimination  of  philologers;  obedient  to  the  familiar 
words  however,  Strawberry  stood  still  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  John  could  see  that  Mrs.  Goddard  was 
seated  by  the  side  of  Reynolds  but  that  Nellie  was 
not  in  the  cart. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Goddard,  is  that  you?"  said  John. 
"Mr.  Juxon  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  Don't  be 
frightened  —  he  is  not  hurt  in  the  least;  awfully  bad 
luck  for  the  tramp,  though!  " 

"The  tramp?"  repeated  Mrs.  Goddard  with  a  faint 
cry  of  horror. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  whose  spirits  rose  wonderfully 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  307 

in  the  light  of  the  dog-cart  lamps.  "  There  was  a 
poor  tramp  hanging  about  the  park  —  poaching,  very 
likely  —  and  Mr.  Juxon's  dog  got  after  him,  some 
how,  I  suppose.  I  do  not  know  how  it  happened, 
but  when  I  came  up  —  oh !  here  is  Mr.  Juxon  him 
self —  he  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

The  squire  came  up  in  breathless  haste,  having 
locked  Stamboul  into  the  house. 

"Good  Heavens!  Mrs.  Goddard!  "  he  ejaculated  in 
a  tone  of  profound  surprise.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  gave 
no  answer.  The  squire  sprang  upon  the  step  and 
looked  closely  at  her.  She  lay  back  against  old  Rey 
nolds 's  shoulder,  very  pale,  with  her  eyes  shut.  It 
was  evident  that  she  had  fainted.  The  old  man 
seemed  not  to  comprehend  what  had  happened;  he 
had  never  experienced  the  sensation  of  having  a  lady 
leaning  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  looked  down  at 
her  with  a  half  idiotic  smile  on  his  deeply  furrowed 
face. 

"She's  took  wuss,  sir,"  he  remarked.  "She  was 
all  for  comin'  up  the  park  as  soon  as  Master  John 
was  gone.  She  warn't  feelin'  herself  o'  no  account 
t'  eveninV 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Short,"  said  the  squire  decisively. 
"I  must  ask  you  to  take  Mrs.  Goddard  home  again 
and  call  her  women  to  look  after  her.  I  fancy  she 
will  come  to  herself  before  long.  Do  you  mind?  " 

"Not  in  the  least, "said  John  cheerfully,  mounting 
at  the  back  of  the  dog-cart. 

"  And  —  Reynolds  —  bring  Mr.  Short  back  to  the 
Hall  immediately,  please,  and  you  shall  have  some 
beer." 

"All  right,  sir." 

John  supported  the  fainting  lady  with  one  arm, 


308       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

turning  round  upon  his  seat  at  the  back.  Old  Straw 
berry  wheeled  quickly  in  her  tracks  and  trotted  down 
the  avenue  under  the  evident  impression  that  she 
was  going  home.  Mr.  Juxon  dashed  across  the  ditch 
again  to  the  place  where  Walter  Goddard  had  fallen. 
The  squire  knelt  down  and  tried  to  ascertain  the 
extent  of  the  man's  injuries ;  as  far  as  he  could  see 
there  was  a  bad  wound  at  his  throat,  and  one  hand 
was  much  mangled.  But  there  seemed  to  have  been 
no  great  flow  of  blood.  He  tore  open  the  smock- 
frock  and  shirt  and  put  his  ear  to  the  heart.  Faintly, 
very  faintly,  he  could  hear  it  beat.  Walter  Goddard 
was  alive  still  —  alive  to  live  for  years  perhaps,  the 
squire  reflected;  to  live  in  a  prison,  it  was  true,  but 
to  live.  To  describe  his  feelings  in  that  moment 
would  be  impossible.  Had  he  found  the  convict  dead, 
it  would  be  useless  to  deny  that  he  would  have  felt  a 
very  great  satisfaction,  tempered  perhaps  by  some 
pity  for  the  wretched  man's  miserable  end,  but  still 
very  great.  It  would  have  seemed  such  a  just  end, 
after  all ;  to  be  killed  in  the  attempt  to  kill,  and  to 
have  died  not  by  the  squire's  hand  but  by  the  sharp 
strong  jaws  of  the  hound  who  had  once  before  saved 
the  squire's  life.  But  he  was  alive.  It  would  not 
take  much  to  kill  him;  a  little  pressure  on  his 
wounded  throat  would  be  enough.  Even  to  leave 
him  there,  uncared  for,  till  morning  in  the  bleak 
wind,  lying  upon  the  cold  ground,  would  be  almost 
certain  to  put  an  end  to  his  life.  But  to  the  honour 
of  Charles  James  Juxon  be  it  said  that  such  thoughts 
never  crossed  his  mind.  He  pulled  off  his  heavy 
ulster  greatcoat,  wrapped  it  about  the  felon's  insen 
sible  body,  then,  kneeling,  raised  up  his  head  and 
shoulders,  got  his  strong  arms  well  round  him  and 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  309 

with  some  difficulty  rose  to  his  feet.  Once  upright, 
it  was  no  hard  matter  to  carry  his  burthen  through  the 
trees  to  the  road,  and  up  the  avenue  to  his  own  door. 

"Holmes,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  to  his  butler,  "this 
man  is  badly  hurt,  but  he  is  alive.  Help  me  to  carry 
him  upstairs." 

There  was  that  in  the  squire's  voice  which  brooked 
neither  question  nor  delay  when  he  was  in  earnest. 
The  solemn  butler  took  Walter  Goddard  by  the  feet 
and  the  squire  took  him  by  the  shoulders ;  so  they 
carried  him  up  to  a  bedroom  and  laid  him  down,  feel 
ing  for  the  bed  in  the  dark  as  they  moved.  Holmes 
then  lit  a  candle  with  great  calmness. 

"Shall  I  send  for  the  medical  man,  sir?"  he  asked 
quietly. 

"  Yes.  Send  the  gig  as  fast  as  possible.  If  he  is 
not  at  home,  or  cannot  be  found,  send  on  to  the  town. 
If  anybody  asks  questions  say  the  man  is  a  tramp 
who  attacked  me  in  the  park  and  Stamboul  pulled 
him  down.  Send  at  once,  and  bring  me  some  brandy 
and  light  the  fire  here." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Holmes,  and  left  the  room. 

Mr.  Juxon  lighted  other  candles  and  examined  the 
injured  man.  There  was  now  no  doubt  that  he  was 
alive.  He  breathed  faintly  but  regularly;  his  pulse 
beat  less  rapidly  and  more  firmly.  His  face  was 
deadly  pale  and  very  thin,  and  his  half -opened  eyes 
stared  unconsciously  upwards,  but  they  were  not 
glazed  nor  death-like.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  little 
blood,  comparatively  speaking. 

"Bah!"  ejaculated  the  squire.  "I  believe  he  is 
only  badly  frightened,  after  all." 

Holmes  brought  brandy  and  warm  water  and  again 
left  the  room.  Mr.  Juxon  bathed  Goddard's  face 


310  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

and  neck  with  a  sponge,  eying  him  suspiciously  all 
the  while.  It  would  not  have  surprised  him  at  any 
moment  if  he  had  leaped  from  the  bed  and  attempted 
to  escape.  To  guard  against  surprise,  the  squire 
locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  watch 
ing  the  convict  to  see  whether  he  noticed  the  act  or 
was  really  unconscious.  But  Goddard  never  moved 
nor  turned  his  motionless  eyeballs.  Mr.  Juxon  re 
turned  to  his  side,  and  with  infinite  care  began  to 
remove  his  clothes.  They  were  almost  in  rags.  He 
examined  each  article,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
money  in  the  pockets,  amounting  to  nearly  sixty 
pounds ;  then  he  smiled  to  himself,  remembering  that 
the  convict  had  visited  his  wife  and  had  doubtless 
got  the  money  from  her  to  aid  him  in  his  escape. 
He  put  the  notes  and  gold  carefully  together  in  a 
drawer  after  counting  them,  and  returning  to  his 
occupation  succeeded  at  last  in  putting  Goddard  to 
bed,  after  staunching  his  wounds  as  well  as  he  could 
with  handkerchiefs. 

He  stood  long  by  the  bedside,  watching  the  man's 
regular  breathing,  and  examining  his  face  atten 
tively.  Many  strange  thoughts  passed  through  his 
mind,  as  he  stood  there,  looking  at  the  man  who  had 
caused  such  misery  to  himself,  such  shame  and  sor 
row  to  his  fair  wife,  such  disappointment  to  the 
honest  man  who  was  now  trying  to  save  him  from 
the  very  grasp  of  death.  So  this  was  Mary  God- 
dard's  husband,  little  Nellie's  father  —  this  grimy 
wretch,  whose  foul  rags  lay  heaped  there  in  the  cor 
ner,  whose  miserable  head  pressed  the  spotless  linen 
of  the  pillow,  whose  half-closed  eyes  stared  up  so 
senselessly  at  the  squire's  face.  This  was  the  man 
for  whose  sake  Mary  Goddard  started  and  turned 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PAKISH.  311 

pale,  fainted  and  grew  sick,  languished  and  suffered 
so  much  pain.  No  wonder  she  concealed  it  from 
Nellie  —  no  wonder  she  had  feared  lest  after  many 
years  he  should  come  back  and  claim  her  for  his  wife 
—  no  wonder  either  that  a  man  with  such  a  face 
should  do  bad  deeds. 

Mr.  Juxon  was  a  judge  of  faces;  persons  accus 
tomed  for  many  years  to  command  men  usually  are. 
He  noted  Walter  Goddard's  narrow  jaw  and  pointed 
chin,  his  eyes  set  near  together,  his  wicked  lips, 
parted  and  revealing  sharp  jagged  teeth,  his  ill-shaped 
ears  and  shallow  temples,  his  flat  low  forehead,  shown 
off  by  his  cropped  hair.  And  yet  this  man  had  once 
been  called  handsome,  he  had  been  admired  and 
courted.  But  then  his  hair  had  hidden  the  shape  of 
his  head,  his  long  golden  moustache  had  covered  his 
mouth  and  disguised  all  his  lower  features,  he  had 
been  arrayed  by  tailors  of  artistic  merit,  and  he  had 
had  much  gold  in  his  pockets.  He  was  a  very  differ 
ent  object  now  —  the  escaped  convict,  close  cropped, 
with  a  half-grown  beard  upon  his  ill-shaped  face, 
and  for  all  ornament  a  linen  sheet  drawn  up  under 
his  chin. 

The  squire  was  surprised  that  he  did  not  recover 
consciousness,  seeing  that  he  breathed  regularly  and 
was  no  longer  so  pale  as  at  first.  A  faint  flush 
seemed  to  rise  to  his  sunken  cheeks,  and  for  a  long 
time  Mr.  Juxon  stood  beside  him,  expecting  every 
moment  that  he  would  speak.  Once  he  thought  his 
lips  moved  a  little.  Then  Mr.  Juxon  took  a  little 
brandy  in  a  spoon  and  raising  his  head  poured  it 
down  his  throat.  The  effect  was  immediate.  God- 
dard  opened  wide  his  eyes,  the  blood  mounted  to  his 
cheeks  with  a  deep  flush,  and  he  uttered  an  inarticu 
late  sound. 


312       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  the  squire,  bending 
over  him. 

But  there  was  no  answer.  The  sick  man's  head 
fell  back  upon  the  pillow,  though  his  eyes  remained 
wide  open  and  the  flush  did  not  leave  his  cheeks. 
His  pulse  was  now  very  high,  and  his  breathing  grew 
heavy  and  stertorous. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  made  him  any  worse,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Juxon  aloud,  as  he  contemplated  his 
patient.  "But  if  he  is  going  to  die,  I  wish  he 
would  die  now." 

The  thought  was  charitable,  on  the  whole.  If 
Walter  Goddard  died  then  and  there,  he  would  be 
buried  in  a  nameless  grave  under  the  shadow  of  the 
old  church ;  no  one  would  ever  know  that  he  was  the 
celebrated  forger,  the  escaped  convict,  the  husband 
of  Mary  Goddard.  If  he  lived  —  heaven  alone  knew 
what  complications  would  follow  if  he  lived. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Mr.  Juxon  drew 
the  key  from  his  pocket  and  opened  it.  Holmes  the 
butler  stood  outside. 

"Mr.  Short  has  come  back,  sir.  He  asked  if  you 
wished  to  see  him." 

"Ask  him  to  come  here,"  replied  the  squire,  to 
whom  the  tension  of  keeping  his  solitary  watch  was 
becoming  very  irksome.  In  a  few  moments  John 
entered  the  room,  looking  pale  and  nervous. 


A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY  PARISH.  313 


CHAPTER  XX. 

JOHN  SHORT  was  in  absolute  ignorance  of  what 
was  occurring.  He  attributed  Mrs.  Goddard's 
anxiety  to  her  solicitude  for  Mr.  Juxon,  and  if  he 
had  found  time  to  give  the  matter  serious  considera 
tion,  he  would  have  argued  very  naturally  that  she 
was  fond  of  the  squire.  It  had  been  less  easy  than 
the  latter  had  supposed  to  take  her  home  and  per 
suade  her  to  stay  there,  for  she  was  in  a  state  in 
which  she  hardly  understood  reason.  Nothing  but 
John's  repeated  assurances  to  the  effect  that  Mr. 
Juxon  was  not  in  the  least  hurt,  and  that  he  would 
send  her  word  of  the  condition  of  the  wounded 
tramp,  prevailed  upon  her  to  remain  at  the  cottage ; 
for  she  had  come  back  to  consciousness  before  the 
dog-cart  was  fairly  out  of  the  park  and  had  almost 
refused  to  enter  her  own  home. 

The  catastrophe  had  happened,  after  eight  and 
forty  hours  of  suspense,  and  her  position  was  one  of 
extreme  fear  and  doubt.  She  had  indeed  seen  the 
squire  at  the  very  moment  when  she  fainted,  but  the 
impression  was  uncertain  as  that  of  a  dream,  and  it 
required  all  John's  asseverations  to  persuade  her  that 
Mr.  Juxon  had  actually  met  her  and  insisted  that  she 
should  return  to  the  cottage.  Once  there,  in  her  own 
house,  she  abandoned  herself  to  the  wildest  excite 
ment,  shutting  herself  into  the  drawing-room  and 
refusing  to  see  anyone ;  she  gave  way  to  all  her  sor- 


814  A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

row  and  fear,  feeling  that  if  she  controlled  herself 
any  longer  she  must  go  mad.  Indeed  it  was  the  best 
thing  she  could  do,  for  her  nerves  were  overstrained, 
and  the  hysterical  weeping  which  now  completely 
overpowered  her  for  some  time,  was  the  natural  relief 
to  her  overwrought  system.  She  had  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  the  tramp  of  whom  John  had  spoken,  and 
whom  he  had  described  as  badly  hurt,  was  her  hus 
band;  and  together  with  her  joy  at  Mr.  Juxon's 
escape,  she  felt  an  intolerable  anxiety  to  know 
Walter's  fate.  If  in  ordinary  circumstances  she  had 
been  informed  that  he  had  died  in  prison,  it  would 
have  been  absurd  to  expect  her  to  give  way  to  any 
expressions  of  excessive  grief;  she  would  perhaps 
have  shed  a  few  womanly  tears  and  for  some  time 
she  would  have  been  more  sad  than  usual ;  but  she 
no  longer  loved  him  and  his  death  could  only  be  re 
garded  as  a  release  from  all  manner  of  trouble  and 
shame  and  evil  foreboding.  With  his  decease  would 
have  ended  her  fears  for  poor  Nellie,  her  apprehen 
sions  for  the  future  in  case  he  should  return  and 
claim  her,  the  whole  weight  of  her  humiliation,  and 
if  she  was  too  kind  to  have  rejoiced  over  such  a 
termination  of  her  woes,  she  was  yet  too  sensible  not 
to  have  fully  understood  and  appreciated  the  fact  of 
her  liberation  and  of  the  freedom  given  to  the  child 
she  loved,  by  the  death  of  a  father  whose  return  could 
bring  nothing  but  disgrace.  But  now  she  did  not 
know  whether  Walter  were  alive  or  dead.  If  he  was 
alive  he  was  probably  so  much  injured  as  to  preclude 
all  possibility  of  his  escaping,  and  he  must  inevitably 
be  given  up  to  justice,  no  longer  to  imprisonment 
merely,  but  by  his  own  confession  to  suffer  the  death 
of  a  murderer.  If  on  the  other  hand  he  was  already 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PAKISH.  315 

dead,  he  bad  died  a  death  less  shameful  indeed,  but 
of  which  the  circumstances  were  too  horrible  for  his 
wife  to  contemplate,  for  he  must  have  been  torn  to 
pieces  by  Stamboul  the  bloodhound. 

She  unconsciously  comprehended  all  these  consider 
ations,  which  entirely  deprived  her  of  the  power  to 
weigh  them  in  her  mind,  for  her  mind  was  temporarily 
loosed  from  all  control  of  the  reasoning  faculty.  She 
had  borne  much  during  the  last  three  days,  but  she 
could  bear  no  more ;  intellect  and  sensibility  were 
alike  exhausted  and  gave  way  together.  There  were 
indeed  moments,  intervals  in  the  fits  of  hysteric  tears 
and  acute  mental  torture,  when  she  lay  quite  still  in 
her  chair  and  vaguely  asked  herself  what  it  all  meant, 
but  her  disturbed  consciousness  gave  no  answer  to  the 
question,  and  presently  her  tears  broke  out  afresh  and 
she  tossed  wildly  from  side  to  side,  or  walked  hurriedly 
up  and  down  the  room,  wringing  her  hands  in  despair, 
sobbing  aloud  in  her  agony  and  again  abandoning  her 
self  to  the  uncontrolled  exaggerations  of  her  grief  and 
terror.  One  consolation  alone  presented  itself  at  in 
tervals  to  her  confused  intelligence ;  Mr.  Juxon  was 
safe.  Whatever  other  fearful  thing  had  happened, 
he  was  safe,  saved  perhaps  by  her  warning  —  but 
what  was  that,  if  Walter  had  escaped  death  only  to 
die  at  the  hands  of  the  hangman,  or  had  found  it  in 
the  jaws  of  that  fearful  bloodhound?  What  was  the 
safety  even  of  her  best  friend,  if  poor  Nellie  was  to 
know  that  her  father  was  alive,  only  to  learn  that  he 
was  to  die  again  ? 

But  human  suffering  cannot  outlast  human 
strength;  as  a  marvellous  adjustment  of  forces  has 
ordered  that  even  at  the  pole,  in  the  regions  of  bound 
less  and  perpetual  cold,  the  sea  shall  not  freeze  to  the 


316  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

bottom,  so  there  is  also  in  human  nature  a  point 
beyond  which  suffering  cannot  extend.  The  wildest 
emotions  must  expend  themselves  in  time,  the  fiercest 
passions  must  burn  out.  At  the  end  of  two  hours 
Mary  Goddard  was  exhausted  by  the  vehemence  of 
her  hysteric  fear,  and  woke  as  from  a  dream  to  a  dull 
sense  of  reality.  She  knew,  now  that  some  power  of 
reflection  was  restored  to  her,  that  the  squire  would 
give  her  intelligence  of  what  had  happened,  so  soon 
as  he  was  able,  and  she  knew  also  that  she  must  wait 
until  the  morning  before  any  such  message  could  reach 
her.  She  took  the  candle  from  the  table  and  went 
upstairs.  Nellie  was  asleep,  but  her  mother  felt  a 
longing  to  look  at  her  again  that  night,  not  knowing 
what  misery  for  her  child  the  morrow  might  bring 
forth. 

Nellie  lay  asleep  in  her  bed,  her  rich  brown  hair 
plaited  together  and  thrown  back  across  the  pillow. 
The  long  dark  fringes  of  her  eyelashes  cast  a  shade 
upon  the  transparent  colour  of  her  cheek,  and  the 
light  breath  came  softly  through  her  parted  lips. 
But  as  Mary  Goddard  looked  she  saw  that  there  were 
still  tears  upon  her  lovely  face  and  that  the  pillow 
was  still  wet.  She  had  cried  herself  to  sleep,  for 
Martha  had  told  her  that  her  mother  was  very  ill  and 
would  not  see  her  that  night ;  Nellie  was  accustomed 
to  say  her  prayers  at  her  mother's  knee  every  evening 
before  going  to  bed,  she  was  used  to  having  her 
mother  smooth  her  pillow  and  kiss  her  and  put  out 
her  light,  leaving  her  with  sweet  words,  to  wake  her 
with  sweet  words  on  the  next  morning,  and  to-night 
she  had  missed  all  this  and  had  been  told  moreover 
that  her  mother  was  very  ill  and  was  acting  very 
strangely.  She  had  gone  to  bed  and  had  cried  her- 


A  TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  317 

self  to  sleep,  and  the  tears  were  still  upon  her  cheeks. 
Shading  the  light  carefully  from  the  child's  eyes,  Mary 
Goddard  bent  down  and  kissed  her  forehead  once  and 
then  feeling  that  her  sorrow  was  rising  again  she 
turned  and  passed  noiselessly  from  the  room. 

But  Nellie  was  dreaming  peacefully  and  knew  noth 
ing  of  her  mother's  visit ;  she  slept  on  not  knowing 
that  scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  her  own  father, 
whom  she  had  been  taught  to  think  of  as  dead,  was 
lying  at  the  Hall,  wounded  and  unconscious  while 
half  the  detectives  in  the  kingdom  were  looking  for 
him.  Had  Nellie  known  that,  her  sleep  would  have 
been  little  and  her  dreams  few. 

There  was  little  rest  at  the  Hall  that  night.  When 
Reynolds  had  driven  John  back  to  the  great  house  he 
found  his  way  to  the  kitchen  and  got  his  beer,  and  he 
became  at  once  a  centre  of  interest,  being  overwhelmed 
with  questions  concerning  the  events  of  the  evening. 
But  he  was  able  to  say  very  little  except  that  while 
waiting  before  the  cottage  he  had  heard  strange  noises 
from  the  park,  that  Master  John  had  run  up  the 
avenue,  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  taken  Miss  Nellie  into 
the  house  and  had  then  insisted  upon  being  driven 
towards  the  Hall,  that  they  had  met  Master  John  and 
the  squire  and  that  Mrs.  Goddard  had  been  "took 
wuss." 

Meanwhile  John  entered  the  room  where  Mr.  Juxon 
was  watching  over  Walter  Goddard.  John  looked 
pale  and  nervous ;  he  had  not  recovered  from  the  un 
pleasant  sensation  of  being  left  alone  with  what  he 
believed  to  be  a  dead  body,  in  the  struggling  moon 
light  and  the  howling  wind.  He  was  by  no  means 
timid  by  nature,  but  young  nerves  are  not  so  tough 
as  old  ones  and  he  had  felt  exceedingly  uncomfortable. 


318  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

He  stood  a  moment  within  the  room,  then  glanced  at 
the  bed  and  started  with  surprise. 

"  Why —  he  is  not  dead  after  all !  "  he  exclaimed,  and 
going  nearer  he  looked  hard  at  Goddard's  flushed  face. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  "  he  is  not  dead.  He  may 
be  dying  for  all  I  know.  I  have  sent  for  the  doctor." 

"  Was  he  much  hurt  ?  "  asked  John,  still  looking  at 
the  sick  man.  "  He  looks  to  me  as  though  he  were  in 
a  fever." 

"  He  does  not  seem  so  badly  hurt.  I  cannot  make 
it  out  at  all.  At  first  I  thought  he  was  badly  fright 
ened,  but  I  cannot  bring  him  to  consciousness.  Per 
haps  he  has  a  fever,  as  you  say.  This  is  a  most 
unpleasant  experience,  Mr.  Short  —  your  first  night 
at  the  Hall,  too.  Of  course  I  am  bound  to  look  after 
the  man,  as  Stamboul  did  the  damage  —  it  would  have 
served  him  right  if  he  had  been  killed.  It  was  a  vil 
lainous  blow  he  gave  me  —  I  can  feel  it  still.  The 
moral  of  it  is  that  one  should  always  wear  a  thick 
ulster  when  one  walks  alone  at  night." 

"  I  did  not  know  he  struck  you,"  said  John  in  some 
surprise. 

"  Jumped  out  of  the  copse  at  the  turning  and  struck 
at  me  with  a  bludgeon,"  said  Mr.  Juxon.  "  Knocked 
my  hat  off,  into  the  bargain,  and  then  ran  away  with 
Stamboul  after  him.  If  I  had  not  come  up  in  time 
there  would  have  been  nothing  left  of  him." 

"I  should  say  the  dog  saved  your  life,"  remarked 
John,  much  impressed  by  the  squire's  unadorned  tale. 
"  What  object  can  the  fellow  have  had  in  attacking 
you  ?  Strange  —  his  eyes  are  open,  but  he  does  not 
seem  to  understand  us." 

Mr.  Juxon  walked  to  the  bedside  and  contemplated 
the  sick  man's  features  with  undisguised  disgust. 


A   TALE   OF   A   LOXELY   PARISH.  319 

"  You  villain ! "  lie  said  roughly.  "  Why  don't  you 
answer  for  yourself  ?  "  The  man  did  not  move,  and 
the  squire  began  to  pace  the  room.  John  was  struck 
by  Mr.  Juxon's  tone:  it  was  not  like  him,  he  thought, 
to  speak  in  that  way  to  a  helpless  creature.  He  could 
not  understand  it.  There  was  a  long  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  heavy  breathing  of  Goddard. 

"Really,  Mr.  Short,"  said  the  squire  at  last,  "I 
have  no  intention  of  keeping  you  up  all  night.  The 
village  doctor  must  have  been  out.  It  may  be  more 
than  an  hour  before  my  man  finds  another." 

"Never  mind,"  said  John  quietly.  "I  will  wait 
till  he  comes  at  all  events.  You  may  need  me  before 
it  is  over." 

"  Do  you  think  he  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to 
die  ? "  asked  the  squire  doubtfully,  as  he  again  ap 
proached  the  bedside. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  John,  standing  on  the 
other  side.  "I  never  saw  any  one  die.  He  looks 
very  ill." 

"  Very  ill.  I  have  seen  many  people  die  —  but 
somehow  I  have  a  strong  impression  that  this  fellow 
will  live." 

"  Let  us  hope  so,"  said  John. 

"Well  — "  The  squire  checked  himself.  Prob 
ably  the  hope  he  would  have  expressed  would  not 
have  coincided  with  that  to  which  John  had  given 
utterance.  "  Well,"  he  repeated,  "  I  daresay  he  will. 
Mr.  Short,  are  you  at  all  nervous  ?  Since  you  are  so 
good  as  to  say  you  will  wait  until  the  doctor  comes, 
would  you  mind  very  much  being  left  alone  here  for 
five  minutes  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  John,  stoutly,  "  not  in  the  least." 
To  be  left  in  a  well-lighted  room  by  the  bedside  of 


320  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

Walter  Goddard,  ill  indeed,  but  alive  and  breathing 
vigorously,  was  very  different  from  being  requested 
to  watch  his  apparently  dead  body  out  in  the  park 
under  the  moonlight. 

With  a  word  of  thanks,  the  squire  left  the  room, 
and  hastened  to  his  study,  where  he  proceeded  to 
write  a  note,  as  follows  :  — 

"My  DEAR  MR.  AMBROSE  —  The  man  we  were 
speaking  of  yesterday  morning  actually  attacked  me 
this  evening.  Stamboul  worried  him  badly,  but  he  is 
not  dead.  He  is  lying  here,  well  cared  for,  and  I 
have  sent  for  the  doctor.  If  convenient  to  you, 
would  you  come  in  the  morning  ?  I  need  not  recom 
mend  discretion.  —  Sincerely  yours, 

"  C.  J.  JUXON. 

"  N.B.  —  I  am  not  hurt." 

Having  ascertained  that  Reynolds  was  still  in  the 
kitchen,  the  missive  was  given  to  the  old  man  with 
an  injunction  to  use  all  speed,  as  the  vicar  might  be 
going  to  bed  and  the  note  was  important. 

John,  meanwhile,  being  left  alone  sat  down  near 
the  wounded  man's  bed  and  waited,  glancing  at  the 
flushed  face  and  staring  eyes  from  time  to  time,  and 
wondering  whether  the  fellow  would  recover.  The 
young  scholar  had  been  startled  by  all  that  had 
occurred,  and  his  ideas  wandered  back  to  the  begin 
ning  of  the  evening,  scarcely  realising  that  a  few 
hours  ago  he  had  not  met  Mrs.  Goddard,  had  not 
experienced  a  surprising  change  in  his  feelings 
towards  her,  had  not  witnessed  the  strange  scene 
under  the  trees.  It  seemed  as  though  all  these 
things  had  occupied  a  week  at  the  very  least,  whereas 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  321 

on  that  same  afternoon  he  had  been  speculating  upon 
his  meeting  with  Mrs.  Goddard,  calling  up  her  feat 
ures  to  his  mind  as  he  had  last  seen  them,  framing 
speeches  which  when  the  meeting  came  he  had  not 
delivered,  letting  his  mind  run  riot  in  the  delicious 
anticipation  of  appearing  before  her  in  the  light  of  a 
successful  competitor  for  one  of  the  greatest  honours 
of  English  scholarship.  And  yet  in  a  few  hours  all 
his  feelings  were  changed,  and  to  his  infinite  surprise, 
were  changed  without  any  suffering  to  himself;  he 
knew  well  that,  for  some  reason,  Mrs.  Goddard  had 
lost  the  mysterious  power  of  making  him  blush,  and 
of  sending  strange  thrills  through  his  whole  nature 
when  he  sat  at  her  side  ;  with  some  justice  he  attrib 
uted  his  new  indifference  to  the  extraordinary  altera 
tion  in  her  appearance,  whereby  she  seemed  now  so 
much  older  than  himself,  and  he  forthwith  moralised 
upon  the  mutability  of  human  affairs,  with  all  the 
mental  fluency  of  a  very  young  man  whose  affairs  are 
still  extremely  mutable.  He  fell  to  musing  on  the 
accident  in  the  park,  wondering  how  he  would  have 
acted  in  Mr.  Juxon's  place,  wondering  especially 
what  object  could  have  led  the  wretched  tramp  to 
attack  the  squire,  wondering  too  at  the  very  great 
anxiety  shown  by  Mrs.  Goddard. 

As  he  sat  by  the  bedside,  the  sick  man  suddenly 
moved  and  turning  his  eyes  full  upon  John's  face 
stared  at  him  with  a  look  of  dazed  surprise.  He 
thrust  out  his  wounded  hand,  bound  up  in  a  white 
handkerchief  through  which  a  little  blood  was  slowly 
oozing,  and  to  John's  infinite  surprise  he  spoke. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  strange,  mumbling 
voice,  as  though  he  had  pebbles  in  his  mouth. 

John  started  forward  in  his  chair  and  looked  in 
tently  at  Goddard's  face. 


322  A   TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"My  name  is  Short,"  he  answered  mechanically. 
But  the  passing  flash  of  intelligence  was  already 
gone,  and  Goddard's  look  became  a  glassy  and  idiotic 
stare.  Still  his  lips  moved.  John  came  nearer  and 
listened. 

44  Mary  Goddard !  Mary  Goddard  !  Let  me  in  ! " 
said  the  sick  man  quite  intelligibly,  in  spite  of  his 
uncertain  tone.  John  uttered  an  exclamation  of  as 
tonishment;  his  heart  beat  fast  and  he  listened  in 
tently.  The  sick  man  mumbled  inarticulate  sounds ; 
not  another  word  could  be  distinguished.  John  looked 
for  the  bell,  thinking  that  Mr.  Juxon  should  be  in 
formed  of  the  strange  phenomenon  at  once ;  but  before 
he  could  ring  the  squire  himself  entered  the  room, 
having  finished  and  despatched  his  note  to  Mr. 
Ambrose. 

"  It  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  John.  "  He  spoke 
just  now — " 

"  What  did  he  say  ? "  asked  Mr.  Juxon  very 
quickly. 

a  He  said  first,  4  Who  are  you  ? '  and  then  he  said 
'Mary  Goddard,  let  me  in!'  Is  it  not  most  ex 
traordinary?  How  in  the  world  should  he  know 
about  Mrs.  Goddard  ?  " 

The  squire  turned  a  little  pale  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment.  He  had  left  John  with  the  wounded  man 
feeling  sure  that,  for  some  time  at  least,  the  latter 
would  not  be  likely  to  say  anything  intelligible. 

"  Most  extraordinary !  "  he  repeated  presently. 
Then  he  looked  at  Goddard  closely,  and  turned 
him  again  upon  his  back  and  put  his  injured  hand 
beneath  the  sheet. 

"  Do  you  understand  me  ?  Do  you  know  who  I 
am  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  loud  tone  close  to  his  ear. 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  323 

But  the  unfortunate  man  gave  no  sign  of  intelli 
gence,  only  his  inarticulate  mumbling  grew  louder 
though  not  more  distinct.  Mr.  Juxon  turned  away 
impatiently. 

"  The  fellow  is  in  a  delirium,"  he  said.  "  I  wish 
the  doctor  would  come."  He  had  hardly  turned  his 
back  when  the  man  spoke  again. 

"  Mary  Goddard !  "  he  cried.     "  Let  me  in  ! " 

"  There  !  "  said  John.     "  The  same  words !  " 

Mr.  Juxon  shuddered,  and  looked  curiously  at  his 
companion  ;  then  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
whistling  softly  walked  about  the  room.  John  was 
shocked  at  what  seemed  in  the  squire  a  sort  of  inde 
cent  levity ;  he  could  not  understand  that  his  friend 
felt  as  though  he  should  go  mad. 

Indeed  the  squire  suffered  intensely.  The  name  of 
Mary  Goddard,  pronounced  by  the  convict  in  his 
delirium  brought  home  more  vividly  than  anything 
could  have  done  the  relation  between  the  wounded 
tramp  and  the  woman  the  squire  loved.  It  was  posi 
tively  true,  then  —  there  was  not  a  shadow  of  doubt 
left,  since  this  wretch  lay  there  mumbling  her  name 
in  his  ravings  !  This  was  the  husband  of  that  gentle 
creature  with  sad  pathetic  eyes,  so  delicate,  so  refined 
that  it  seemed  as  though  the  coarser  breath  of  the 
world  of  sin  and  shame  could  never  come  near  her  — 
this  was  her  husband !  It  was  horrible.  This  was  the 
father  of  lovely  Nellie,  too.  Was  anything  wanting 
to  make  the  contrast  more  hideous  ? 

Mr.  Juxon  felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  foresee 
what  Walter  Goddard  might  say  in  the  course  of  an 
other  hour.  He  had  often  seen  people  in  a  delirium 
and  knew  how  strangely  that  inarticulate  murmuring 
sometimes  breaks  off  into  sudden  incisive  speech,  as- 


324       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

tonishing  every  one  who  hears.  The  man  had  already 
betrayed  that  he  knew  Mary  Goddard;  at  the  next 
interval  in  his  ravings  he  might  betray  that  she  was 
his  wife.  John  was  still  standing  by  the  bedside,  not 
having  recovered  from  his  astonishment ;  if  John  heard 
any  more,  he  would  be  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Goddard's 
secret.  The  squire  was  an  energetic  man,  equal  to 
most  emergencies ;  he  suddenly  made  up  his  mind. 

"  Mr.  Short,"  he  said,  "  I  will  tell  you  something. 
You  will  see  the  propriety  of  being  very  discreet,  in 
fact  it  is  only  to  ensure  your  discretion  that  I  wish  to 
tell  you  this  much.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  this 
fellow  is  a  convict  —  do  not  be  surprised  —  escaped 
from  prison.  He  is  a  man  who  once  —  was  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Goddard,  which  accounts  for  his  having 
found  his  way  to  Billingsfield.  Yes  —  I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say  —  Mrs.  Goddard  is  aware  of  his 
presence,  and  that  accounts  for  her  excitement  and  her 
fainting.  Do  you  understand?" 

"But  —  good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  John  in  amaze 
ment.  "Why  did  she  not  give  information,  if  she 
knew  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  more  than  could  be  expected  of 
any  woman,  Mr.  Short.  You  forget  that  the  man  once 
loved  her." 

"  And  how  did  you  —  well,  no.  I  won't  ask  any 
questions." 

"  No,"  said  the  squire,  "  please  don't.  You  would 
be  placing  me  in  a  disagreeable  position.  Not  that 
I  do  not  trust  you  implicitly,  Mr.  Short,"  he  added 
frankly,  "  but  I  should  be  betraying  a  confidence.  If 
this  fellow  dies  here,  he  will  be  buried  as  an  unknown 
tramp.  I  found  no  trace  of  a  name  upon  his  clothes. 
If  he  recovers,  we  will  decide  what  course  to  pursue. 


A   TALE  OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  325 

We  will  do  our  best  for  him  —  it  is  a  delicate  case  of 
conscience.  Possibly  the  poor  fellow  would  very  much 
prefer  being  allowed  to  die ;  but  we  cannot  let  him. 
Humanity,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  forbids  eu 
thanasia  and  the  use  of  the  hemlock  in  such  cases." 

"  Was  he  sentenced  for  a  long  time  ?  "  asked  John, 
very  much  impressed  by  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 

"  Twelve  years  originally,  I  believe.  Aggravated 
by  his  escape  and  by  his  assault  on  me,  his  term 
might  very  likely  be  extended  to  twenty  years  if  he 
were  taken  again." 

"  That  is  to  say,  if  he  recovers?"  inquired  John. 

"Precisely.  I  do  not  think  I  would  hesitate  to 
send  him  back  to  prison  if  he  recovered." 

"  I  do  not  wonder  you  think  he  would  rather  die 
here,  if  he  were  consulted,"  said  John.  "  It  would 
not  be  murder  to  let  him  die  peacefully  —  " 

"  In  the  opinion  of  the  law  it  might  be  called  man 
slaughter,  though  I  do  not  suppose  anything  would 
be  said  if  I  had  simply  placed  him  here  and  omitted 
to  call  in  a  physician.  He  cannot  live  very  long  in 
this  state,  unless  something  is  done  for  him  immedi 
ately.  Look  at  him." 

There  was  no  apparent  change  in  Goddard's  con 
dition.  He  lay  upon  his  back  staring  straight  up 
ward  and  mumbling  aloud  with  every  breath  he 
drew. 

"  He  must  have  been  ill,  before  he  attacked  me," 
continued  Mr.  Juxon,  very  much  as  though  he  were 
talking  to  himself.  "  He  evidently  is  in  a  raging 
fever  —  brain  fever  I  should  think.  That  is  probably 
the  reason  why  he  missed  his  aim  —  that  and  the 
darkness.  If  he  had  been  well  he  would  have  killed 
me  fast  enough  with  that  bludgeon.  As  you  say,  Mr. 


326        A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

Short,  there  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  would  pre 
fer  to  die  here,  if  he  had  his  choice.  In  my  opinion, 
too,  it  would  be  far  more  merciful  to  him  and  to  — 
to  him  in  fact.  Nevertheless,  neither  you  nor  I 
would  like  to  remember  that  we  had  let  him  die 
without  doing  all  we  could  to  keep  him  alive.  It  is 
a  very  singular  case." 

"  Most  singular,"  echoed  John. 

"  Besides  —  there  is  another  thing.  Suppose  that 
he  had  attacked  me  as  he  did,  but  that  I  had  killed 
him  with  my  stick  —  or  that  Stamboul  had  made  an 
end  of  him  then  and  there.  The  law  would  have 
said  it  served  him  right  —  would  it  not?  Of  course. 
But  if  I  had  not  quite  killed  him,  or,  as  has  actually 
happened,  he  survived  the  embraces  of  my  dog,  the 
law  insists  that  I  ought  to  do  everything  in  my  power 
to  save  the  remnant  of  his  life.  What  for  ?  In  order 
that  the  law  may  give  itself  the  satisfaction  of  dealing 
with  him  according  to  its  lights.  I  think  the  law  is 
very  greedy,  I  object  to  it,  I  think  it  is  ridiculous 
from  that  point  of  view,  but  then,  when  I  come  to 
examine  the  thing  I  find  that  my  own  conscience 
tells  me  to  save  him,  although  I  think  it  best  that  he 
should  die.  Therefore  the  law  is  not  ridiculous. 
Pleasant  dilemma  —  the  impossible  case  !  The  law 
is  at  the  same  time  ridiculous  and  not  ridiculous. 
The  question  is,  does  the  law  deduce  itself  from  con 
science,  or  is  conscience  the  direct  result  of  existing 
law?" 

The  squire  appeared  to  be  in  a  strangely  moralising 
mood,  and  John  listened  to  him  with  some  surprise. 
He  could  not  understand  that  the  good  man  was  talk 
ing  to  persuade  himself,  and  to  concentrate  his  facul 
ties,  which  had  been  almost  unbalanced  by  the  events 
of  the  evening. 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  327 

"  I  think,"  said  John  with  remarkable  good  sense, 
"  that  the  instinct  of  man  is  to  preserve  life  when  he 
is  calm.  When  a  man  is  fighting  with  another  he  is 
hot  and  tries  to  kill  his  enemy ;  when  the  fight  is 
over,  the  natural  instinct  returns." 

"  The  only  thing  worth  knowing  in  such  cases  is 
the  precise  point  at  which  the  fight  may  be  said  to  be 
over.  I  once  knew  a  young  surgeon  in  India  who 
thought  he  had  killed  a  cobra  and  proceeded  to  extract 
the  fangs  in  order  to  examine  the  poison.  Unfortu 
nately  the  snake  was  not  quite  dead;  he  bit  the 
surgeon  in  the  finger  and  the  poor  fellow  died  in 
thirty-five  minutes." 

"Dreadful!"  said  John.  "But  you  do  not  think 
this  poor  fellow  could  do  anything  very  dangerous 
now  —  do  you?" 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  no  ! "  returned  the  squire.  "  I  was 
only  stating  a  case  to  prove  that  one  is  sometimes 
justified  in  going  quite  to  the  end  of  a  fight.  No 
indeed!  He  will  not  be  dangerous  for  some  time, 
if  he  ever  is  again.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  he  must 
have  been  ill  some  time.  Delirium  never  comes  on 
in  this  way,  so  soon  —  " 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  Holmes, 
who  came  to  say  that  the  physician,  Doctor  Long- 
street,  had  arrived. 

"  Oh  —  it  is  Doctor  Longstreet  is  it  ?  "  said  the 
squire.  "  Ask  him  to  come  up." 


328  A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

DOCTOR  LONGSTREET  was  not  the  freethinking 
physician  of  Billingsfield.  The  latter  was  out  when 
Mr.  Juxon's  groom  went  in  search  of  him,  and  the 
man  had  driven  on  to  the  town,  six  miles  away. 
The  doctor  was  an  old  man  with  a  bright  eye,  a 
deeply  furrowed  forehead,  a  bald  head  and  clean 
shaved  face.  He  walked  as  though  his  frame  were 
set  together  with  springs  and  there  was  a  curious 
snapping  quickness  in  his  speech.  He  seemed  full 
of  vitality  and  bore  his  years  with  a  jaunty  air  of 
merriment  which  inspired  confidence,  for  he  seemed 
perpetually  laughing  at  the  ills  of  the  flesh  and 
ready  to  make  other  people  laugh  at  them  too.  But 
his  bright  eyes  had  a  penetrating  look  and  though  he 
judged  quickly  he  generally  was  right  in  his  opinion. 
He  entered  the  room  briskly,  not  knowing  that  the 
sick  man  was  there. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Juxon,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  I  am  with 
you."  He  had  the  habit  of  announcing  his  presence 
in  this  fashion,  as  though  his  brisk  and  active  person 
ality  were  likely  to  be  overlooked.  A  moment  later 
he  caught  sight  of  the  bed.  "  Dear  me,"  he  added  in 
a  lower  voice,  "  I  did  not  know  our  patient  was  here." 

He  went  to  Walter  Goddard's  side,  looked  at  him 
attentively,  felt  his  pulse,  and  his  forehead,  glanced 
at  the  bandages  the  squire  had  roughly  put  upon  his 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  329 

throat  and  hand,  drew  up  the  sheet  again  beneath  his 
chin  and  turned  sharply  round. 

"Brain  fever,  sir,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "Brain 
fever.  You  must  get  some  ice  and  have  some  beef 
tea  made  as  soon  as  possible.  He  is  in  a  very  bad 
way  —  curious,  too ;  he  looks  like  a  cross  between  a 
ticket  of  leave  man  and  a  gentleman.  Tramp,  you 
say?  That  would  not  prevent  his  being  either.  You 
cannot  disturb  him  —  don't  be  afraid.  He  hears 
nothing  —  is  off,  the  Lord  knows  where,  raving 
delirious.  Must  look  to  his  scratches  though  —  dan 
gerous  —  inflammation.  Do  you  mind  telling  me 
what  happened  —  how  long  he  has  been  here?" 

The  squire  in  a  few  words  informed  Doctor  Long- 
street  of  the  attack  made  upon  him  in  the  park.  The 
doctor  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Only  two  hours  and  a  half  since,"  he  remarked. 
"  It  is  just  midnight  now,  very  good  —  the  man  must 
have  been  in  a  fever  all  day  —  yesterday,  too,  perhaps. 
He  is  not  badly  hurt  by  the  dog  —  like  to  see  that 
dog,  if  you  don't  mind — the  fright  most  likely  sent 
him  into  delirium.  You  have  nothing  to  accuse 
yourself  of,  Mr.  Juxon :  it  was  certainly  not  your 
fault.  Even  if  the  dog  had  not  bitten  him,  he  would 
most  likely  have  been  in  his  present  state  by  this 
time.  Would  you  mind  sending  for  some  ice  at  once  ? 
Thank  you.  It  was  very  lucky  for  the  fellow  that  he 
attacked  you  just  when  he  did  —  secured  him  the 
chance  of  being  well  taken  care  of.  If  he  had  gone 
off  like  this  in  the  park  he  would  have  been  dead 
before  morning." 

The  squire  rang  and  sent  for  the  ice  the  doctor 
demanded. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  live  ?  "  he  asked  nervously. 


330  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Doctor  Longstreet, 
frankly.  "Nobody  can  tell.  He  is  very  much 
exhausted  —  may  live  two  or  three  days  in  this  state 
and  then  die  or  go  to  sleep  and  get  well  —  may  die 
in  the  morning  —  often  do  —  cannot  say.  With  a 
great  deal  of  care,  I  think  he  has  a  chance." 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  save  him,"  said  the  squire, 
looking  hard  at  the  physician. 

"  Very  good  of  you,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Doctor 
Longstreet,  cheerfully.  "It  is  not  everybody  who 
would  take  so  much  trouble  for  a  tramp.  Of  course 
if  he  dies  people  will  say  your  dog  killed  him ;  but  I 
will  sign  a  paper  to  the  effect  that  it  is  not  true.  If 
he  had  left  you  and  your  dog  alone,  he  would  have 
been  dead  in  the  morning  to  an  absolute  certainty." 

"  How  very  extraordinary  !  "  exclaimed  the  squire, 
suddenly  realising  that  instead  of  causing  the  man's 
death  Stamboul  had  perhaps  saved  his  life. 

"It  was  certainly  very  odd  that  he  should  have 
chosen  the  best  moment  for  assaulting  you,"  con 
tinued  the  doctor.  "It  is  quite  possible  that  even 
then  he  was  under  some  delusion  —  took  you  for 
somebody  else  —  some  old  enemy.  People  do  queer 
things  in  a  brain  fever.  By  the  bye  has  he  said  any 
thing  intelligible  since  he  has  been  here  ?  " 

John  Short  who  had  been  standing  silently  by  the 
bedside  during  the  whole  interview  looked  up  quickly 
at  the  squire,  wondering  how  he  would  answer.  But 
Mr.  Juxon  did  not  hesitate. 

"  Yes.  Twice  he  repeated  a  woman's  name.  That 
is  very  natural,  I  suppose.  Do  you  think  he  will 
have  any  lucid  moments  for  some  time  ?  " 

"  May,"  said  the  doctor,  "  may.  When  he  does  it 
is  likely  to  be  at  the  turning  point;  he  will  either 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  331 

die  or  be  better  very  soon  after.  If  it  comes  soon  he 
may  say  something  intelligible.  If  he  is  much  more 
exhausted  than  he  is  now,  he  will  understand  you, 
but  you  will  not  understand  him.  Meningitis  always 
brings  a  partial  paralysis  of  the  tongue,  when  the 
patient  is  exhausted.  Most  probably  he  will  go  on 
moaning  and  mumbling,  as  he  does  now,  for  another 
day.  You  will  be  able  to  tell  by  his  eye  whether  he 
understands  anything;  perhaps  he  will  make  some 
sign  with  his  head  or  hand.  Ah  —  here  is  the  ice." 

Doctor  Longstreet  went  about  his  operations  in  a 
rapid  and  business  like  fashion  and  John  gave  what 
assistance  he  could.  The  squire  stood  leaning  against 
the  chimney-piece  in  deep  thought. 

Indeed  he  had  enough  to  think  of,  when  he  had 
fully  weighed  the  meaning  of  the  doctor's  words.  He 
was  surprised  beyond  measure  at  the  turn  things  had 
taken ;  for  although,  as  he  had  previously  told  John, 
he  suspected  that  Goddard  must  have  been  in  a  fever 
for  several  hours  before  the  assault,  it  had  not  struck 
him  that  Stamboul's  attack  had  been  absolutely  harm 
less,  still  less  that  it  might  prove  to  have  been  the 
means  of  saving  the  convict's  life.  It  was  terribly 
hard  to  say  that  he  desired  to  save  the  man,  and  yet 
the  honest  man  in  his  heart  prayed  that  he  might 
really  hope  for  that  result.  It  would  be  far  worse, 
should  Goddard  die,  to  remember  that  he  had  wished 
for  his  death.  But  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine  a 
more  unexpected  position  than  that  in  which  the 
squire  found  himself ;  by  a  perfectly  natural  chain 
of  circumstances  he  was  now  tending  with  the  utmost 
care  the  man  who  had  tried  to  murder  him,  and  who 
of  all  men  in  the  world,  stood  most  in  the  way  of  the 
accomplishment  of  his  desires. 


332       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

He  could  not  hide  from  himself  the  fact  that  he 
hated  the  sick  man,  even  though  he  hoped,  or  tried 
to  hope  for  his  recovery.  He  hated  him  for  the 
shame  and  suffering  he  had  brought  upon  Mary 
Goddard  in  the  first  instance,  for  the  terrible  anxiety 
he  had  caused  her  by  his  escape  and  sudden  appear 
ance  at  her  house ;  he  hated  him  for  being  what  he 
was,  being  also  the  father  of  Nellie,  and  he  hated  him 
honestly  for  his  base  attempt  upon  himself  that  night. 
He  had  good  cause  to  hate  him,  and  perhaps  he  was 
not  ashamed  of  his  hatred.  To  be  called  upon,  how 
ever,  to  return  good  for  such  an  accumulated  mass  of 
evil  was  almost  too  much  for  his  human  nature.  It 
was  but  a  faint  satisfaction  to  think  that  if  he  re 
covered  he  was  to  be  sent  back  to  prison.  Mr.  Juxon 
did  not  know  that  there  was  blood  upon  the  man's 
hands  —  he  had  yet  to  learn  that ;  he  would  not  deign 
to  mention  the  assault  in  the  park  when  he  handed 
him  over  to  the  authorities ;  the  man  should  simply 
go  back  to  Portland  to  suffer  the  term  of  his  imprison 
ment,  as  soon  as  he  should  be  well  enough  to  be 
moved  —  if  that  time  ever  came.  If  he  died,  he 
should  be  buried  decently  in  a  nameless  grave,  "  six 
feet  by  four,  by  two,"  as  Thomas  Reid  would  have 
said  —  if  he  died. 

Meanwhile,  however,  there  was  yet  another  con 
sideration  which  disturbed  the  squire's  meditations. 
Mrs.  Goddard  had  a  right  to  know  that  her  husband 
was  dying  and,  if  she  so  pleased,  she  had  a  right  to 
be  at  his  bedside.  But  at  the  same  time  it  would  be 
necessary  so  to  account  for  her  presence  as  not  to 
arouse  Doctor  Longstreet's  suspicions,  nor  the  com 
ments  of  Holmes,  the  butler,  and  of  his  brigade  in 
the  servants'  hall.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to  do  this 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  333 

unless  Mrs.  Goddard  were  accompanied  by  the  vicar's 
wife,  the  excellent  and  maternally  minded  Mrs.  Am 
brose.  To  accomplish  this  it  would  be  necessary  to 
ask  the  latter  lady  to  spend  a  great  part  of  her  time 
at  the  Hall  in  taking  care  of  the  wretched  Goddard, 
who  would  again  be  the  gainer.  But  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  as  yet  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he  had  escaped 
from  prison ;  she  must  be  told  then,  and  an  effort 
must  be  made  to  elicit  her  sympathy.  Perhaps  she 
and  the  vicar  would  come  and  stop  a  few  days, 
thought  the  squire.  Mrs.  Goddard  might  then  come 
and  go  as  she  pleased.  Her  presence  by  her  husband's 
bedside  would  then  be  accounted  for  on  the  ground 
of  her  charitable  disposition. 

While  Mr.  Juxon  was  revolving  these  things  in  his 
mind  he  watched  the  doctor  and  John  who  were  doing 
what  was  necessary  for  the  sick  man.  Goddard 
moaned  helplessly  with  every  breath,  in  a  loud,  mo 
notonous  tone,  very  wearing  to  the  nerves  of  those 
who  heard  it. 

"  There  is  little  to  be  done,"  said  Doctor  Longstreet 
at  last.  "  He  must  be  fed  —  alternately  a  little  beef 
tea  and  then  a  little  weak  brandy  and  water.  We 
must  try  and  keep  the  system  up.  That  is  his  only 
chance.  I  will  prescribe  something  and  send  it  back 
by  the  groom." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  leave  us  to-night?"  exclaimed 
the  squire  in  alarm. 

"Must.  Very  sorry.  Bad  case  of  diphtheria  in 
town  —  probably  die  before  morning,  unless  I  get 
there  in  time  —  I  would  not  have  come  here  for 
any  one  else.  I  will  certainly  be  here  before  ten  — 
he  will  live  till  then,  I  fancy,  and  I  don't  believe 
there  will  be  any  change  in  his  condition.  Good-night, 


334  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

Mr.  Juxon  —  beef  tea  and  brandy  every  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Good-night,  Mr.  —  "  he  turned  to  John. 

"  Short,"  said  John.     "  Good-night,  doctor." 

"Ah  —  I  remember — used  to  be  with  Mr.  Ambrose 
—  yes.  Delighted  to  meet  you  again,  Mr.  Short  — 
good-night." 

The  doctor  vanished,  before  either  the  squire  or 
John  had  time  to  follow  him.  His  departure  left  an 
unpleasant  sense  of  renewed  responsibility  in  the 
squire's  mind. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  bed,  Mr.  Short,"  he  said 
kindly.  "  I  will  sit  up  with  him." 

But  John  would  not  hear  of  any  such  arrangement ; 
he  insisted  upon  bearing  his  share  of  the  watching  and 
stoutly  refused  to  leave  the  squire  alone.  There  was 
a  large  dressing-room  attached  to  the  room  where 
Goddard  was  lying ;  the  squire  and  John  finally  agreed 
to  watch  turn  and  turn  about,  one  remaining  with 
Goddard,  while  the  other  rested  upon  the  couch  in  the 
dressing-room  aforesaid.  The  squire  insisted  upon 
taking  his  watch  first,  and  John  lay  down.  It  was 
past  midnight  and  he  was  very  tired,  but  it  seemed 
impossible  to  sleep  with  the  sound  of  that  loud,  mo 
notonous  mumbling  perpetually  in  his  ears.  It  was 
a  horrible  night,  and  John  Short  never  forgot  it  so 
long  as  he  lived.  Years  afterwards  he  could  not 
enter  the  room  where  Goddard  had  lain  without 
fancying  he  heard  that  perpetual  groaning  still  ring 
ing  in  his  ears.  For  many  hours  it  continued  un 
abated  and  unchanging,  never  dying  away  to  silence 
nor  developing  to  articulate  words.  From  time  to 
time  John  could  hear  the  squire's  step  as  he  moved 
about,  administering  the  nourishment  prescribed.  If 
he  had  had  the  slightest  idea  of  Mr.  Juxon's  state  of 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       335 

mind  he  would  hardly  have  left  him  even  to  rest 
awhile  in  the  next  room. 

Fortunately  the  squire's  nerves  were  solid.  A  firm 
constitution  hardened  by  thirty  years  of  seafaring  and 
by  the  consistent  and  temperate  regularity  which  was 
part  of  his  character,  had  so  toughened  his  natural 
strength  as  to  put  him  almost  beyond  the  reach  of 
mortal  ills;  otherwise  he  must  have  broken  down 
under  the  mental  strain  thus  forced  upon  him.  It  is 
no  light  thing  to  do  faithfully  the  utmost  to  save 
a  man  one  has  good  reason  to  hate,  and  whose  death 
would  be  an  undoubted  blessing  to  every  one  who  has 
anything  to  do  with  him.  Walter  Goddard  was  to 
Charles  Juxon  at  once  an  enemy,  an  obstacle  and  a 
rival;  an  enemy,  for  having  attempted  his  life,  an 
obstacle,  because  while  he  lived  he  prevented  the 
squire  from  marrying  Mrs.  Goddard  and  a  rival  be 
cause  she  had  once  loved  him  and  for  the  sake  of  that 
love  was  still  willing  to  sacrifice  much  for  him.  And 
yet  the  very  fact  that  she  had  loved  him  made  it 
easier  to  be  kind  to  him ;  it  seemed  to  the  squire  that, 
after  all,  in  taking  care  of  Goddard  he  was  in  some 
measure  serving  her,  too,  seeing  that  she  would  have 
done  the  same  thing  herself  could  she  have  been 
present. 

Yet  there  was  something  very  generous  and  large- 
hearted  in  the  way  Charles  Juxon  did  his  duty  by  the 
sick  man.  There  are  people  who  seem  by  nature 
designed  to  act  heroic  parts  in  life,  whose  actions 
habitually  take  an  heroic  form,  and  whose  whole 
character  is  of  another  stamp  from  that  of  average 
humanity.  Of  such  people  much  is  expected,  because 
they  seem  to  offer  much ;  no  one  is  surprised  to  hear 
of  their  making  great  sacrifices,  no  one  is  astonished  if 


336  A  TALE    OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

they  exhibit  great  personal  courage  in  times  of  danger. 
Very  often  they  are  people  of  large  vanity,  whose 
chiefest  vanity  is  not  to  seem  vain ;  gifted  with  great 
powers  and  always  seeking  opportunities  of  using 
them,  holding  high  ideas  upon  most  subjects  but 
rarely  conceiving  themselves  incapable  of  attaining 
to  any  ideal  they  select  for  their  admiration  ;  brave  in 
combat  partly  from  real  courage,  partly,  as  I  have 
often  heard  officers  say  of  a  dandy  soldier  in  the 
ranks,  because  they  are  too  proud  to  run  away ;  but, 
on  the  whole,  heroic  by  temperament  and  in  virtue 
of  a  singular  compound  of  pride,  strength  and  virtue, 
often  accomplishing  really  great  things.  They  are 
almost  always  what  are  called  striking  people,  for 
their  pride  and  their  strength  generally  attract 
attention  by  their  magnitude,  and  something  in  their 
mere  appearance  distinguishes  them  from  the  average 
mass. 

But  Charles  Juxon  did  not  in  any  way  belong  to 
this  type,  any  more  than  the  other  persons  who  found 
themselves  concerned  in  the  events  which  culminated 
in  Goddard's  illness.  He  was  a  very  simple  man 
whose  pride  was  wholly  unconscious,  who  did  not 
believe  himself  destined  to  do  anything  remarkable, 
who  regarded  his  own  personality  as  rather  uninter 
esting  and  who,  had  he  been  asked  about  himself, 
would  have  been  the  first  to  disclaim  any  sentiments 
of  the  heroic  kind.  With  very  little  imagination, 
he  possessed  great  stability  himself  and  great  belief 
in  the  stability  of  things  in  general,  a  character  of 
the  traditional  kind  known  as  "  northern,"  though  it 
would  be  much  more  just  to  describe  it  as  the  "  tem 
perate  "  or  "  central  "  type  of  man.  Wherever  there 
is  exaggeration  in  nature,  there  is  exaggerated  imag- 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  337 

ination  in  man.  The  solid  and  unimaginative  part  of 
the  English  character  is  undeniably  derived  from  the 
Angles  or  from  the  Flemish ;  it  is  morally  the  best 
part,  but  it  is  by  all  odds  the  least  interesting  —  it  is 
found  in  the  type  of  man  belonging  to  the  plains  in  a 
temperate  zone,  who  differs  in  every  respect  from  the 
real  northman,  his  distant  cousin  and  hereditary  enemy. 
If  Charles  Juxon  was  remarkable  for  anything  it  was 
for  his  modesty  and  reticence,  in  a  word,  for  his  ap 
parent  determination  not  to  be  remarkable  at  all. 

And  now,  in  the  extremest  anxiety  and  difficulty, 
his  character  served  him  well ;  for  he  unconsciously 
refused  to  allow  to  himself  that  his  position  was  ex 
traordinary  or  his  responsibility  greater  than  he  was 
able  to  bear.  He  disliked  intensely  the  idea  of  being 
put  forward  or  thrust  into  a  dramatic  situation,  and 
he  consequently  failed  signally  to  fulfil  the  dramatic 
necessities.  There  was  not  even  a  struggle  in  his 
heart  between  the  opposite  possibilities  of  letting 
Goddard  die,  by  merely  relaxing  his  attention,  and  of 
redoubling  his  care  and  bringing  about  his  recovery. 
He  never  once  asked  himself,  after  the  chances  of  the 
patient  surviving  the  fever  were  stated,  whether  he 
would  not  be  justified  in  sending  for  some  honest 
housewife  from  the  village  to  take  care  of  the  tramp 
instead  of  looking  to  his  wants  himself.  He  simply 
did  his  best  to  save  the  man's  life,  without  hesitation, 
without  suspecting  that  he  was  doing  anything  extraor 
dinary,  doing,  as  he  had  always  done,  the  best  thing 
that  came  in  his  way  according  to  the  best  of  his  abil 
ity.  He  could  not  wholly  suppress  the  reflection  that 
much  good  might  ensue  from  Goddard's  death,  but 
the  thought  never  for  a  moment  interfered  with  his 
efforts  to  save  the  convict  alive. 


338  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

But  John  lay  in  the  next  room,  kept  awake  by  the 
sick  man's  perpetual  groaning  and  by  the  train  of 
thought  which  ran  through  his  brain.  There  were 
indeed  more  strange  things  than  his  philosophy  could 
account  for,  but  the  strangest  of  all  was  that  the 
squire  should  know  who  the  tramp  was;  he  must 
know  it,  John  thought,  since  he  knew  all  about  him, 
his  former  love  for  Mrs.  Goddard  and  his  recent  pres 
ence  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  young  man's  curi 
osity  was  roused  to  its  highest  pitch  and  he  longed  to 
know  more.  He  at  once  guessed  that  there  must  have 
been  much  intimate  confidence  between  Mr.  Juxon 
and  Mrs.  Goddard ;  he  suspected  moreover  that  there 
must  be  some  strange  story  connected  with  her,  some 
thing  which  accounted  for  the  peculiar  stamp  of  a 
formerly  luxurious  life  which  still  clung  to  her,  and 
which  should  explain  her  residence  in  Billingsfield. 
But  John  was  very  far  from  suspecting  the  real  truth. 

His  mind  was  restless  and  the  inaction  became  in 
tolerable  to  him.  He  rose  at  last  and  went  again  into 
the  room  where  his  friend  was  watching.  Mr.  Juxon 
sat  by  the  bedside,  the  very  picture  of  patience,  one 
leg  crossed  over  the  other  and  his  hands  folded  to 
gether  upon  his  knee,  his  face  paler  than  usual  but 
perfectly  calm,  his  head  bent  a  little  to  one  side  and 
his  smooth  hair,  which  had  been  slightly  ruffled  in  the 
encounter  in  the  park,  as  smooth  as  ever.  It  was  a 
very  distinctive  feature  of  him;  it  was  part  of  the 
sleek  and  spotless  neatness  which  Mrs.  Ambrose  so 
much  admired. 

"  It  is  my  turn,  now,"  said  John.  "  Will  you  lie 
down  for  a  couple  of  hours?" 

The  squire  rose.  Being  older  and  less  excitable 
than  John,  he  was  beginning  to  feel  the  need  of  rest. 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  339 

People  who  have  watched  often  by  the  sick  know  how 
terribly  long  are  those  hours  of  the  night  between 
three  o'clock  and  dawn ;  long  always,  but  seeming 
interminable  when  one  is  obliged  to  listen  perpetually 
to  a  long-drawn,  inarticulate  moaning,  a  constant 
effort  to  speak  which  never  results  in  words. 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  Mr.  Juxon,  quietly. 
"  If  you  will  give  him  the  things  from  time  to  time, 
I  will  take  a  nap." 

With  that  he  went  and  lay  down  upon  the  couch, 
and  in  three  minutes  was  as  sound  asleep  as  though 
he  were  in  bed.  John  sat  by  the  sick  man  and  looked 
at  his  flushed  features  and  listened  to  the  hard-drawn 
breath  followed  each  time  by  that  terrible,  monot 
onous,  mumbling  groan. 

It  might  have  been  three-quarters  of  an  hour  since 
the  squire  had  gone  to  sleep  when  John  thought  he 
saw  a  change  in  Goddard's  face ;  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  flush  subsided  from  his  forehead,  very  slowly, 
leaving  only  a  bright  burning  colour  in  his  cheeks- 
His  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  clearer  and  a 
strange  look  of  intelligence  came  into  them ;  his 
whole  appearance  was  as  though  illuminated  by  a 
flash  of  some  light  different  from  that  of  the  candles 
which  burned  upon  the  table.  John  rose  to  his  feet 
and  came  and  looked  at  him.  The  groaning  sud 
denly  ceased  and  Goddard's  eyelids,  which  had  been 
motionless  for  hours,  moved  naturally.  He  appeared 
to  be  observing  John's  face  attentively. 

44  Where  is  the  squire  ?  "  he  asked  quite  naturally  — 
so  naturally  that  John  was  startled. 

"  Asleep  in  the  next  room,"  replied  the  latter. 

"  I  did  not  kill  him  after  all,"  said  Goddard,  turn 
ing  himself  a  little  as  though  to  be  more  at  his  ease. 


340  A    TALE    OF    A    LONELY   PARISH. 

"No,"  answered  John.  "He  is  not  hurt  at  all. 
Can  you  tell  me  who  you  are?"  For  his  life,  he 
could  not  help  asking  the  question.  It  seemed  so 
easy  to  find  out  who  the  fellow  was,  now  that  he 
could  speak  intelligibly.  But  Goddard's  face  con 
tracted  suddenly,  in  a  hideous  smile. 

"Don't  you  wish  you  knew?"  he  said  roughly. 
"But  I  know  you,  my  boy,  I  know  you  —  ha!  ha! 
There's  no  getting  away  from  you,  my  boy,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Who  am  I  ?  "  asked  John  in  astonishment. 

"  You  are  the  hangman,"  said  Goddard.  "  I  know 
you  very  well.  The  hangman  is  always  so  well 
dressed.  I  say,  old  chap,  turn  us  off  quick,  you  know 
—  no  fumbling  about  the  bolt.  Look  here  —  I  like 
your  face,"  he  lowered  his  voice  —  "  there  are  nearly 
sixty  pounds  in  my  right-hand  trouser  pocket  —  there 
are  —  Mary  —  ah  —  gave  —  M  —  a  —  " 

Again  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  and  the  moaning 
began  and  continued.  John  was  horror-struck  and 
stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  his  face,  over  which 
the  deep  flush  had  spread  once  more,  seeming  to 
obliterate  all  appearance  of  intelligence.  Then  the 
young  man  put  his  hand  beneath  Goddard's  head  and 
gently  replaced  him  in  his  former  position,  smoothing 
the  pillows,  and  giving  him  a  little  brandy.  He  de 
bated  whether  or  not  he  should  call  the  squire  from 
his  rest  to  tell  him  what  had  happened,  but  seeing 
that  Goddard  had  now  returned  to  his  former  state? 
he  supposed  such  moments  of  clear  speech  were  to  be 
expected  from  time  to  time.  He  sat  down  again,  and 
waited ;  then  after  a  time  he  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  anxiously  for  the  dawn.  It  seemed  an  intoler 
ably  long  night. 

But  the  day  came  at  last  and  shed  a  ghastly  grey 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  341 

tinge  upon  the  sick-room,  revealing  as  it  were  the  out 
lines  of  all  that  was  bad  to  look  at,  which  the  warm 
yellow  candle-light  had  softened  with  a  kindlier 
touch.  John  accidentally  looked  at  himself  in  the 
mirror  as  he  passed  and  was  startled  at  his  own  pale 
face ;  but  the  convict,  labouring  in  the  ravings  of  his 
fever,  seemed  unconscious  of  the  dawning  day;  he 
was  not  yet  exhausted  and  his  harsh  voice  never 
ceased  its  jarring  gibber.  John  wondered  whether 
he  should  ever  spend  such  a  night  again,  and  shud 
dered  at  the  recollection  of  each  moment. 

The  daylight  waked  the  squire  from  his  slumbers, 
however,  and  before  the  sun  was  up  he  came  out  of 
the  dressing-room,  looking  almost  as  fresh  as  though 
nothing  had  happened  to  him  in  the  night.  Accus 
tomed  for  years  to  rise  at  all  hours,  in  all  weathers, 
unimpressionable,  calm  and  strong,  he  seemed  supe 
rior  to  the  course  of  events. 

"Well,  Mr.  Short,  you  allowed  me  a  long  nap. 
You  must  be  quite  worn  out,  I  should  think.  How 
is  the  patient  ?  " 

John  told  what  had  occurred. 

"  Took  you  for  the  hangman,  did  he  ? "  said  the 
squire.  "I  wonder  why  —  but  you  say  he  asked 
after  me  very  sensibly  ?  " 

"  Quite  so.  It  was  when  I  asked  him  his  own  name, 
that  he  began  raving  again,"  answered  John  innocently. 

"  What  made  you  ask  him  that  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Juxon,  who  did  not  seem  pleased. 

"  Curiosity,"  was  John's  laconic  answer. 

"  Yes  —  but  I  fancy  it  frightened  him.  If  I  were 
you  I  would  not  do  it  again,  if  he  has  a  lucid  moment. 
I  imagine  it  was  fright  that  made  him  delirious  in 
the  first  instance." 


342       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"All  right,"  quoth  John.  "I  won't."  But  he 
made  his  own  deductions.  The  squire  evidently 
knew  who  he  was,  and  did  not  want  John  to  know, 
for  some  unexplained  reason.  The  young  man  won 
dered  what  the  reason  could  be ;  the  mere  name  of 
the  wretched  man  was  not  likely  to  convey  any  idea 
to  his  mind,  for  it  was  highly  improbable  that  he 
had  ever  met  him  before  his  conviction.  So  John 
departed  to  his  own  room  and  refreshed  himself  with 
a  tub,  while  the  squire  kept  watch  by  daylight. 

It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock  when  Holmes  brought 
a  note  from  the  vicar,  which  Mr.  Juxon  tore  open 
and  read  with  anxious  interest. 

"Mr  DEAR  MR.  JUXON  —  I  received  your  note 
late  last  night,  but  I  judged  it  better  to  answer  this 
morning,  not  wishing  to  excite  suspicion  by  sending 
to  you  at  so  late  an  hour.  The  intelligence  is  indeed 
alarming  and  you  will,  I  daresay,  understand  me, 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  found  it  necessary  to  commu 
nicate  it  to  Mrs.  Ambrose  —  " 

The  squire  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  at  the 
vicar's  way  of  putting  the  point ;  but  he  read  quickly 
on. 

"She  however  —  and  I  confess  my  surprise  and 
gratification  —  desires  to  accompany  me  to  the  Hall 
this  morning,  volunteering  to  take  all  possible  care 
of  the  unfortunate  man.  As  she  has  had  much 
experience  in  visiting  the  sick,  I  fancy  that  she  will 
render  us  very  valuable  assistance  in  saving  his  life. 
Pray  let  me  know  if  the  plan  has  your  approval,  as 
it  may  be  dangerous  to  lose  time.  —  Yours  sincerely, 

"AuGUSTiN  AMBROSE." 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  343 

Mr.  Juxon  was  delighted  to  find  that  the  difficult 
task  of  putting  Mrs.  Ambrose  in  possession  of  the 
facts  of  the  case  had  been  accomplished  in  the  ordi 
nary,  the  very  ordinary,  course  of  events  by  her  own 
determination  to  find  out  what  was  to  be  known.  In 
an  hour  she  might  be  at  Goddard's  bedside,  and  Mrs. 
Goddard  would  be  free  to  see  her  husband.  He 
despatched  a  note  at  once  and  redoubled  his  atten 
tions  to  the  sick  man  whose  condition,  however, 
showed  no  signs  of  changing. 


344  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MRS.  AMBROSE  kept  her  word  and  arrived  with 
the  vicar  before  nine  o'clock,  protesting  her  determi 
nation  to  take  care  of  poor  Goddard,  so  long  as  he 
needed  any  care.  Mr.  Juxon  warned  her  that  John 
did  not  know  who  the  man  was,  and  entreated  her  to 
be  careful  of  her  speech  when  John  was  present. 
There  was  no  reason  why  John  should  ever  know  any 
thing  more  about  it,  he  said;  three  could  keep  a 
secret,  but  no  one  knew  whether  four  could  be  as 
discreet. 

The  squire  took  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  her  husband  to 
Goddard's  room  and  telling  her  that  Doctor  Long- 
street  was  expected  in  an  hour,  by  which  time  he 
himself  hoped  to  have  returned,  he  left  the  two  good 
people  in  charge  of  the  sick  man  and  went  to  see 
Mrs.  Goddard.  He  sent  John  a  message  to  the  effect 
that  all  was  well  and  that  he  should  take  some  rest 
while  the  Ambroses  relieved  the  watch,  and  having 
thus  disposed  his  household  he  went  out,  bound  upon 
one  of  the  most  disagreeable  errands  he  had  ever  un 
dertaken.  But  he  set  his  teeth  and  walked  boldly 
down  the  park. 

At  the  turn  of  the  avenue  he  paused,  at  the  spot 
where  Goddard  had  attacked  him.  There  was  noth 
ing  to  be  seen  at  first,  for  the  road  was  hard  and  dry 
and  there  was  no  trace  of  the  scuffle;  but  as  the 
squire  looked  about  he  spied  his  hat,  lying  in  the 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  345 

ditch,  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  heavy  with  the 
morning  dew  and  the  brim  was  broken  and  bent 
where  Goddard's  weapon  had  struck  it.  Hard  by  in 
a  heap  of  driven  oak  leaves  lay  the  weapon  itself, 
which  Mr.  Juxon  examined  curiously.  It  was  a 
heavy  piece  of  hewn  oak,  evidently  very  old,  and  at 
one  end  a  thick  iron  spike  was  driven  through,  the 
sharp  point  projecting  upon  one  side  and  the  wrought 
head  upon  the  other.  He  turned  it  over  in  his  hands 
and  realised  that  he  had  narrowly  escaped  his  death. 
Then  he  laid  the  hat  and  the  club  together  and  threw 
a  handful  of  leaves  over  them,  intending  to  take  them 
to  the  Hall  at  a  later  hour,  and  he  turned  to  go  upon 
his  way  towards  the  cottage.  But  as  he  turned  he 
saw  two  men  coming  towards  him,  and  now  not 
twenty  yards  away.  His  heart  sank,  for  one  of  the 
two  was  Thomas  Gall  the  village  constable ;  the  other 
was  a  quiet-looking  individual  with  grey  whiskers, 
plainly  dressed  and  unassuming  in  appearance.  In 
stinctively  the  squire  knew  that  Gall's  companion 
must  be  a  detective.  He  was  startled,  and  taken 
altogether  unawares ;  but  the  men  were  close  upon 
him  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  face 
them  boldly. 

Gall  made  his  usual  half  military  salute  as  he  came 
up,  and  the  man  in  plain  clothes  raised  his  hat 
politely. 

4'The  gentleman  from  Lunnon,  sir,"  said  Gall  by 
way  of  introduction,  assuming  an  air  of  mysterious 
importance. 

"Yes?"'  said  Mr.  Juxon  interrogatively.  "Do 
you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

4%  The  gentleman's  come  on  business,  sir.  In  point 
of  fact,  sir,  it's  the  case  we  was  speakin'  of  lately/' 


346       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

The  squire  knew  very  well  what  was  the  matter. 
Indeed,  he  had  wondered  that  the  detective  had  not 
arrived  sooner.  That  did  not  make  it  any  easier  to 
receive  him,  however;  on  the  contrary,  if  he  had 
come  on  the  previous  day  matters  would  have  been 
much  simpler. 

"Very  well,  Gall,"  answered  Mr.  Juxon.  "I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  bringing  Mr.  —  "he  paused 
and  looked  at  the  man  in  plain  clothes. 

"Booley,  sir,"  said  the  detective. 

"Thank  you  —  yes  —  for  bringing  Mr.  Booley  so 
far.  You  may  go  home,  Gall.  If  we  need  your  ser 
vices  we  will  send  to  your  house." 

"It  struck  me,  sir,"  remarked  Gall  with  a  bland 
smile,  "  as  perhaps  I  might  be  of  use  —  pref eshnal  in 
fact,  sir." 

"I  will  send  for  you,"  said  the  detective,  shortly. 
The  manners  of  the  rural  constabulary  had  long 
ceased  to  amuse  him. 

Gall  departed  rather  reluctantly,  but  to  make  up 
for  being  left  out  of  the  confidential  interview  which 
was  to  follow,  he  passed  his  thumb  round  his  belt 
and  thrust  out  his  portly  chest  as  he  marched  down 
the  avenue.  He  subsequently  spoke  very  roughly  to 
a  little  boy  who  was  driving  an  old  sheep  to  the 
butcher's  at  the  other  end  of  the  village. 

Mr.  Juxon  and  the  detective  turned  back  and 
walked  slowly  towards  the  Hall. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  state  exactly  what 
the  business  is,"  said  the  squire,  well  knowing  that 
it  was  best  to  go  straight  to  the  point. 

"You  are  Mr.  Juxon,  I  believe?"  inquired  Mr. 
Booley  looking  at  his  companion  sharply.  The  squire 
nodded.  "Very  good,  Mr.  Juxon,"  continued  the 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PAKISH.  347 

official.  "  I  am  after  a  man  called  Walter  Goddard. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  him?  His  wife,  Mrs. 
Mary  Goddard,  lives  in  this  village." 

"Walter  Goddard  is  at  this  moment  in  my  house," 
said  the  squire  calmly.  "I  know  all  about  him. 
He  lay  in  wait  for  me  at  this  very  spot  last  night  and 
attacked  me.  My  dog  pulled  him  down." 

The  detective  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  intel 
ligence,  and  at  the  cool  manner  in  which  his  com 
panion  conveyed  it. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that.  In  that  case  I  will 
take  him  at  once." 

"I  fear  that  is  impossible,"  answered  the  squire. 
"  The  man  is  raving  in  the  delirium  of  a  brain  fever. 
Meanwhile  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  stay  in  the 
house,  until  he  is  well  enough  to  be  moved.  The 
doctor  will  be  here  at  ten  o'clock,  and  he  will  give 
you  the  details  of  the  case  better  than  I  can.  It  would 
be  quite  impossible  to  take  him  away  at  present." 

"May  I  ask,"  inquired  Mr.  Booley severely,  "why 
you  did  not  inform  the  local  police?" 

"Because  it  would  have  been  useless.  If  he  had 
escaped  after  attacking  me,  I  should  have  done  so. 
But  since  I  caught  him,  and  found  him  to  be  very  ill 
—  utterly  unable  to  move,  I  proposed  to  take  charge 
of  him  myself.  Mrs.  Goddard  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  of  the  vicar,  who  knows  her  story  perfectly  well. 
To  publish  the  story  in  the  village  would  be  to  do 
her  a  great  injury.  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  vicar's  wife, 
who  is  also  acquainted  with  the  circumstances,  is  at 
this  moment  taking  care  of  the  sick  man.  I  pre 
sume  that  my  promise  —  I  am  a  retired  officer  of  the 
Navy  —  and  the  promise  of  Mr.  Ambrose,  the  vicar, 
are  sufficient  guarantee  —  " 


348  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

"Oh,  there  is  no  question  of  guarantee,"  said 
Mr.  Booley.  "I  assure  you,  Mr.  Juxon,  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever  that  you  have  acted  for  the  best. 
Can  you  tell  me  how  long  Goddard  has  been  in  the 
neighbourhood?" 

The  squire  told  the  detective  what  he  knew,  tak 
ing  care  not  to  implicate  Mrs.  Goddard,  even  adding 
with  considerable  boldness,  for  he  was  not  positively 
certain  of  the  statement,  that  neither  she  nor  any  one 
else  had  known  where  the  man  was  hiding.  Mr. 
Booley  being  sure  that  Goddard  could  not  escape  him, 
saw  that  he  could  claim  the  reward  offered  for  the 
capture  of  the  convict.  He  asked  whether  he  might 
see  him. 

"That  is  doubtful,"  said  the  squire.  "When  I 
left  him  just  now  he  was  quite  unconscious,  but  he 
has  lucid  moments.  To  frighten  him  at  such  a  time 
might  kill  him  outright." 

"  It  is  very  easy  for  me  to  say  that  I  am  another 
medical  man,"  remarked  Mr.  Booley.  "Perhaps  I 
might  say  it  in  any  case,  just  to  keep  the  servants 
quiet.  I  would  like  to  see  Mrs.  Goddard,  too." 

"  That  is  another  matter.  She  is  very  nervous.  I 
am  going  to  her  house,  now,  and  probably  she  will 
come  back  to  the  Hall  with  me.  I  might  perhaps 
tell  her  that  you  are  here,  but  I  think  it  would  be 
likely  to  shock  her  very  much." 

"Well,  well,  we  will  see  about  it,"  answered  Mr. 
Booley.  They  reached  the  house  and  the  squire 
ushered  the  detective  into  the  study,  begging  him  to 
wait  for  his  return. 

It  was  a  new  complication,  though  it  had  seemed 
possible  enough.  But  the  position  was  not  pleasant. 
To  feel  that  there  was  a  detective  in  the  house  wait- 


A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY   PARISH.  349 

ing  to  carry  off  Goddard,  so  soon  as  he  should  be  well 
enough  to  be  moved,  was  about  as  disagreeable  as 
anything  well  could  be.  The  longer  the  squire 
thought  of  it,  the  more  impossible  and  at  the  same 
time  unnecessary  it  seemed  to  be  to  inform  Mrs. 
Goddard  of  Booley's  arrival.  He  hastened  down  the 
park,  feeling  that  no  time  must  be  lost  in  bringing 
her  to  her  husband's  bedside. 

He  found  her  waiting  for  him,  and  was  struck  by 
the  calmness  she  displayed.  To  tell  the  truth  the 
violence  of  her  emotions  had  been  wholly  expended 
on  the  previous  night  and  the  reaction  had  brought 
an  intense  melancholy  quiet,  which  almost  frightened 
Mr.  Juxon.  The  habit  of  bearing  great  anxiety  had 
not  been  wholly  forgotten,  for  the  lesson  had  been 
well  learned  during  those  terrible  days  of  her  hus 
band's  trial,  and  it  was  as  though  his  sudden  return 
had  revived  in  her  the  custom  of  silent  suffering. 
She  hardly  spoke,  but  listened  quietly  to  Mr.  Juxon 's 
account  of  what  had  happened. 

"You  are  not  hurt?"  she  asked,  almost  incredu 
lously.  Her  eyes  rested  on  her  friend's  face  with  a 
wistful  look. 

"No,  I  assure  you,  not  in  the  least,"  he  said. 
"But  your  poor  husband  is  very  ill  —  very  ill 
indeed." 

"Tell  me,"  said  she  quietly,  "is  he  dead?  Are 
you  trying  to  break  it  to  me  ?  " 

"No  —  no  indeed.  He  is  alive  —  he  may  even 
recover.  But  that  is  very  uncertain.  It  might  be 
best  to  wait  until  the  doctor  has  been  again.  I  will 
come  back  and  fetch  you  —  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  will  go  at  once.  I  would  like  to  walk. 
It  will  do  me  good." 


350  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

So  the  two  set  out  without  further  words  upon 
their  errand.  Mr.  Juxon  had  purposely  omitted  to 
speak  of  Mr.  Booley's  arrival.  It  would  be  easy,  he 
thought,  to  prevent  them  from  meeting  in  the  great 
house. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Mary  Goddard,  as  they 
walked  together,  "it  is  very  hard  to  wish  that  he 
may  recover —  "  she  stopped  short. 

"Very  hard,"  answered  the  squire.  "His  life 
must  be  one  of  misery,  if  he  lives." 

"Of  course  you  would  send  him  back?"  she  asked 
nervously. 

"  My  dear  friend,  there  is  no  other  course  open  to 
me.  Your  own  safety  requires  it." 

"God  knows  —  you  would  only  be  doing  right," 
she  said  and  was  silent  again.  She  knew,  though 
the  squire  did  not,  what  fate  awaited  Walter  God 
dard  if  he  were  given  up  to  justice.  She  knew  that 
he  had  taken  life  and  must  pay  the  penalty.  Yet  she 
was  very  calm;  her  senses  were  all  dulled  and  yet 
her  thoughts  seemed  to  be  consecutive  and  rational. 
She  realised  fully  that  the  case  of  life  and  death  was 
ill  balanced;  death  had  it  which  ever  course  events 
might  take,  and  she  could  not  save  her  husband.  She 
thought  of  it  calmly  and  calmly  hoped  that  he  might 
die  now,  in  his  bed,  with  her  by  his  side.  It  was  a 
better  fate. 

"  You  say  that  the  doctor  thinks  he  must  have  been 
ill  some  time?"  she  asked  after  a  time. 

"Yes  —  he  was  quite  sure  of  it,"  answered  the 
squire. 

"Perhaps  that  was  why  he  spoke  so  roughly  to 
me,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  though  speaking  to 
herself. 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  351 

The»  tears  came  into  the  squire's  eyes  for  sheer  pity. 
Even  in  this  utmost  extremity  the  unhappy  woman 
tried  to  account  for  her  husband's  rude  and  cruel 
speech.  Mr.  Juxon  did  not  answer  but  looked  away. 
They  passed  the  spot  where  the  scuffle  had  occurred 
on  the  previous  night,  but  still  he  said  nothing,  fear 
ing  to  disturb  her  by  making  his  story  seem  too 
vividly  real. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked  as  they  reached  the 
Hall,  looking  up  at  the  windows. 

"On  the  other  side." 

They  went  in  and  mounted  the  stairs  towards  the 
sick  man's  chamber.  Mr.  Juxon  went  in,  leaving 
Mrs.  Goddard  outside  for  a  moment.  She  could 
hear  that  hideous  rattling  monotonous  moan,  and  she 
trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Presently  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose  came  out,  looking  very  grave  and  passed  by 
her  with  a  look  of  sympathy. 

"Will  you  come  in?"  said  the  squire  in  a  low 
voice. 

Mrs.  Goddard  entered  the  room  quickly.  On  see 
ing  her  husband,  she  uttered  a  low  cry  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  Mr.  Juxon 's  arm.  For  some  seconds  she 
stood  thus,  quite  motionless,  gazing  with  intense  and 
sympathetic  interest  at  the  sick  man's  face.  Then 
she  went  to  his  side  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  burn 
ing  forehead  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Walter!  Walter!  "  she  cried.  " Don't  you  know 
me  ?  Oh,  why  does  he  groan  like  that  ?  Is  he  suffer 
ing?"  she  asked  turning  to  Mr.  Juxon. 

"No  —  I  do  not  think  he  suffers  much.  He  is 
quite  unconscious.  He  is  talking  all  the  time  but 
cannot  pronounce  the  words." 

The  squire  stood  at  a  distance  looking  on,  noting 


352  A    TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

the  womanly  though tfulness  Mrs.  Goddard  displayed 
as  she  smoothed  her  husband's  pillow  and  tried  to 
settle  his  head  more  comfortably  upon  the  bags  of 
ice ;  and  all  the  while  she  never  took  her  eyes  from 
Goddard's  face,  as  though  she  were  fascinated  by  her 
own  sorrow  and  his  suffering.  She  moved  about  the 
bed  with  that  instinctive  understanding  of  sickness 
which  belongs  to  delicate  women,  but  her  glance 
never  strayed  to  Mr.  Juxon ;  she  seemed  forced  by  a 
mysterious  magnetism  to  look  at  Walter  and  only 
at  him. 

"  Has  he  been  long  like  this  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Ever  since  last  night.  He  called  you  once  —  he 
said,  'Mary  Goddard,  let  me  in! '  And  then  he  said 
something  else  —  he  said  —  I  cannot  remember  what 
he  said."  Mr.  Juxon  checked  himself,  remembering 
the  words  John  had  heard,  and  of  which  he  only  half 
understood  the  import.  But  Mrs.  Goddard  hardly 
noticed  his  reply. 

"Will  you  leave  me  alone  with  him?"  she  said 
presently.  "There  is  a  bell  in  the  room  —  I  could 
ring  if  anything  —  happened,"  she  added  with  mourn 
ful  hesitation. 

"Certainly,"  answered  the  squire.  "Only,  I  beg 
of  you  my  dear  friend  —  do  not  distress  yourself 
needlessly  —  " 

"Needlessly!"  she  repeated  with  a  sorrowful 
smile.  "It  is  all  I  can  do  for  him  —  to  watch  by  his 
side.  He  will  not  live  —  he  will  not  live,  I  am 


sure." 


The  squire  inwardly  prayed  that  she  might  be 
right,  and  left  her  alone  with  the  sick  man.  Who, 
he  thought,  was  better  fitted,  who  had  a  stronger 
right  to  be  at  his  bedside  at  such  a  time  ?  If  only 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  353 

he  might  die !  For  if  he  lived,  how  much  more  ter 
rible  would  the  separation  be,  when  Booley  the  detec 
tive  came  to  conduct  him  back  to  his  prison!  In 
truth,  it  would  be  more  terrible  even  than  Mr. 
Juxon  imagined. 

Meanwhile  he  must  go  and  see  to  the  rest  of  the 
household.  He  must  speak  to  John  Short;  he  must 
see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  and  he  must  take  precau 
tions  against  any  of  them  seeing  Mr.  Booley.  This 
was,  he  thought,  very  important,  and  he  resolved  to 
speak  with  the  latter  first.  John  was  probably 
asleep,  worn  out  with  the  watching  of  the  night. 

Mr.  Booley  sat  in  the  squire's  study  where  he  had 
been  left  almost  an  hour  earlier.  He  had  installed 
himself  in  a  comfortable  corner  by  the  fire  and  was 
reading  the  morning  paper  which  he  had  found  un 
opened  upon  the  table.  He  seemed  thoroughly  at 
home  as  he  sat  there,  a  pair  of  glasses  upon  his  nose 
and  his  feet  stretched  out  towards  the  flame  upon  the 
hearth. 

"Thank  you,  I  am  doing  very  well,  Mr.  Juxon," 
he  said  as  the  squire  entered. 

"Oh  —  I  am  very  glad,"  answered  Mr.  Juxon 
politely.  The  information  was  wholly  voluntary  as 
he  had  not  asked  an}^  question  concerning  the  detec 
tive's  comfort. 

"And  how  is  the  patient?"  inquired  Mr.  Booley. 
"  Do  you  think  there  is  any  chance  of  removing  him 
this  afternoon?" 

"This  afternoon?"  repeated  the  squire,  in  some 
astonishment.  "The  man  is  very  ill.  It  may  be 
weeks  before  he  can  be  removed." 

" Oh!  "  ejaculated  the  other.  "I  was  not  aware  of 
that.  I  cannot  possibly  stay  so  long.  To-morrow, 
at  the  latest,  he  will  have  to  go." 


354  A   TALE    OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  argued  Mr.  Juxon,  "the  thing 
is  quite  impossible.  The  doctor  can  testify  to  that  —  " 

"We  are  apt  to  be  our  own  doctors  in  these  cases," 
said  Mr.  Booley,  calmly.  "  At  all  events  he  can  be 
taken  as  far  as  the  county  gaol." 

"  Upon  my  word,  it  would  be  murder  to  think  of  it 
—  a  man  in  a  brain  fever,  in  a  delirium,  to  be  taken 
over  jolting  roads  —  dear  me !  It  is  not  to  be  thought 
of!" 

Mr.  Booley  smiled  benignly,  for  the  first  time 
since  the  squire  had  made  his  acquaintance. 

"  You  seem  to  forget,  Mr.  Juxon,  that  my  time  is 
very  valuable,"  he  observed. 

"  Yes  —  no  doubt  —  but  the  man's  life,  Mr.  Booley, 
is  valuable  too." 

"Hardly,  I  should  say,"  returned  the  detective 
coolly.  "But  since  you  are  so  very  pressing,  I  will 
ask  to  see  the  man  at  once.  I  can  soon  tell  you 
whether  he  will  die  on  the  road  or  not.  I  have  had 
considerable  experience  in  that  line." 

"You  shall  see  him,  as  soon  as  the  doctor  comes," 
replied  the  squire,  shocked  at  the  man's  indifference 
and  hardness. 

"  It  certainly  cannot  hurt  him  to  see  me,  if  he  is 
still  unconscious  or  raving,"  objected  Mr.  Booley. 

"He  might  have  a  lucid  moment  just  when  you 
are  there  —  the  fright  would  very  likely  kill  him." 

"That  would  decide  the  question  of  moving  him," 
answered  Booley,  taking  his  glasses  from  his  nose, 
laying  down  the  paper  and  rising  to  his  feet. 
"  There  is  clearly  some  reason  why  you  object  to  my 
seeing  him  now.  I  would  not  like  to  insist,  Mr. 
Juxon,  but  you  must  please  remember  that  it  may  be 
my  duty  to  do  so." 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH.  355 

The  squire  was  beginning  to  be  angry;  even  his 
calm  temper  was  not  proof  against  the  annoyance 
caused  by  Mr.  Booley's  appearance  at  the  Hall,  but 
he  wisely  controlled  himself  and  resorted  to  other 
means  of  persuasion. 

"There  is  a  reason,  Mr.  Booley;  indeed  there  are 
several  very  good  reasons.  One  of  them  is  that  it 
might  be  fatal  to  frighten  the  man ;  another  is  that 
at  this  moment  his  wife  is  by  his  bedside.  She 
has  entirely  made  up  her  mind  that  when  he  is 
recovered  he  must  return  to  prison,  but  at  present 
it  would  be  most  unkind  to  let  her  know  that  you 
are  in  the  house.  The  shock  to  her  nerves  would 
be  terrible." 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Booley,  "if  there  is  a  lady  in  the 
case  we  must  make  some  allowances,  I  presume. 
Only,  put  yourself  in  my  place,  Mr.  Juxon,  put 
yourself  in  my  place." 

The  squire  doubted  whether  he  would  be  willing 
to  exchange  his  personality  for  that  of  Mr.  Booley. 

"  Well  —  what  then  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  think  I  would 
try  to  be  merciful." 

"  Yes ;  but  suppose  that  in  being  merciful,  you  just 
allowed  that  lady  the  time  necessary  to  present  her 
beloved  husband  with  a  convenient  little  pill,  just  to 
shorten  his  sufferings  ?  And  suppose  that  —  " 

"Really,  Mr.  Booley,  I  think  you  make  very  un 
warrantable  suppositions,"  said  Mr.  Juxon  severely. 
"I  cannot  suppose  any  such  thing." 

"Many  women  —  ladies  too  —  have  done  that  to 
save  a  man  from  hanging,"  returned  Mr.  Booley,  fix 
ing  his  grey  eye  on  the  squire. 

"Hanging?"  repeated  the  latter  in  surprise. 
"But  Goddard  is  not  to  be  hanged." 


356  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"Of  course  he  is.  What  did  you  expect?"  Mr. 
Booley  looked  surprised  in  his  turn. 

"But  —  what  for?"  asked  the  squire  very  anx 
iously.  "He  has  not  killed  anybody  —  " 

"Oh  —  then  you  don't  know  how  he  escaped?" 

"No  —  I  have  not  the  least  idea  —  pray  tell  me." 

"I  don't  wonder  you  don't  understand  me,  then," 
said  Mr.  Booley.  "Well,  it  is  a  short  tale  but  a 
lively  one,  as  they  say.  Of  course  it  stands  to  rea 
son  in  the  first  place  that  he  could  not  have  got  out 
of  Portland.  He  was  taken  out  for  a  purpose.  You 
know  that  after  his  trial  was  over,  all  sorts  of  other 
things  besides  the  forgery  came  out  about  him,  prov 
ing  that  he  was  altogether  a  very  bad  lot.  Now 
about  three  weeks  ago  there  was  a  question  of  iden 
tifying  a  certain  person  —  it  was  a  very  long  story, 
with  a  bad  murder  case  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  com 
monplace,  you  know  the  sort  —  never  mind  the  story, 
it  will  all  be  in  the  papers  before  long  when  they 
have  got  it  straight,  which  is  more  than  I  have,  see 
ing  that  these  affairs  do  get  a  little  complicated  occa 
sionally,  you  know,  as  such  things  will."  Mr.  Booley 
paused.  It  was  evident  that  his  command  of  the 
English  tongue  was  not  equal  to  the  strain  of  con 
structing  a  long  sentence. 

"  This  person,  whom  he  was  to  identify,  was  the 
person  murdered?"  inquired  Mr.  Juxon. 

"Exactly.  It  was  not  the  person,  but  the  per 
son's  body,  so  to  say.  Somebody  who  had  been  con 
nected  with  the  Goddard  case  was  sure  that  if 
Goddard  could  be  got  out  of  prison  he  could  do  the 
identifying  all  straight.  It  did  not  matter  about  his 
being  under  sentence  of  hard  labour  —  it  was  a  pri 
vate  case,  and  the  officer  only  wanted  Goddard's 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       357 

opinion  for  his  personal  satisfaction.  So  he  goes  to 
the  governor  of  Portland,  and  finds  that  Goddard  had 
a  very  good  character  in  that  institution  —  he  was  a 
little  bit  of  a  gay  deceiver,  you  see,  and  knew  how 
to  fetch  the  chaps  in  there  and  particularly  the  par 
son.  So  he  had  a  good  character.  Very  good.  The 
governor  consents  to  send  him  to  town  for  this  private 
job,  under  a  strong  force  —  that  means  three  police 
men  —  with  irons  on  his  hands.  When  they  reached 
London  they  put  him  in  a  fourwheeler.  Those 
things  are  done  sometimes,  and  nobody  is  the  wiser, 
because  the  governor  does  it  on  his  own  responsi 
bility,  for  the  good  of  the  law,  I  suppose.  I  never 
approved  of  it.  Do  you  follow  me,  Mr.  Juxon?" 

"  Perfectly, "  answered  the  squire.  "  He  was  driven 
from  the  station  with  three  policemen  in  a  hackney- 
coach,  you  say." 

"  Exactly  so.  It  was  a  queer  place  where  the  body 
was  —  away  down  in  the  Minor ies.  Ever  been  there, 
Mr.  Juxon  ?  Queer  place  it  is,  and  no  mistake.  I 
would  like  to  show  you  some  little  bits  of  London. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  the  fourwheeler  went  along, 
with  two  policemen  inside  with  Goddard  and  one 
on  the  box.  Safe,  you  would  say.  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
Just  the  beggar's  luck,  too.  It  was  dusk.  That  is 
always  darker  than  when  the  lamps  are  well  going. 
The  fourwheeler  ran  into  a  dray-cart,  round  a  corner 
where  they  were  repairing  the  street.  The  horse 
went  down  with  a  smash,  shafts,  lamp,  everything 
broken  to  smithereens,  as  they  say.  The  policeman 
jumps  off  the  box  with  the  cabby  to  see  what  is 
the  matter.  One  of  the  bobbies  —  the  policemen  I 
would  say  —  it's  a  technical  term,  Mr.  Juxon  — 
gets  out  of  the  cab  to  see  what's  up,  leaving  God- 


358  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

dard  in  charge  of  the  other.  Then  there  is  a  terrific 
row ;  more  carts  come  up,  more  f ourwheelers  —  every 
body  swearing  at  once.  Presently  the  policeman  who 
had  got  out  comes  back  and  looks  in  to  see  if  every 
thing  is  straight.  Not  a  bit  of  it  again.  Other  door 
of  the  cab  was  open  and  —  no  Goddard.  But  the 
policeman  was  lying  back  in  the  corner  and  when 
they  struck  a  light  and  looked,  they  found  he  was 
stone  dead.  Goddard  had  brained  him  with  the  irons 
on  his  wrists.  No  one  ever  saw  him  from  that  day 
to  this.  He  must  have  known  London  well  —  they 
say  he  did,  and  he  was  a  noted  quick  runner.  Being 
nightfall  and  rather  foggy  as  it  generally  is  in  those 
parts  he  got  clear  off.  But  he  killed  the  man  who 
had  him  in  charge  and  if  he  lives  he  will  have  to 
swing  for  it.  May  be  Mrs.  Goddard  does  not  know 
that  —  may  be  she  does.  That  is  the  reason  I  don't 
want  her  to  be  left  alone  with  him.  No  doubt  she  is 
very  good  and  all  that,  but  she  might  just  take  it 
into  her  head  to  save  the  government  twenty  feet  of 
rope." 

"I  am  very  much  surprised,  and  very  much 
shocked,"  said  the  squire  gravely.  "I  had  no  idea 
of  this.  But  I  will  answer  for  Mrs.  Goddard. 
Why  was  all  this  never  in  the  papers  —  or  was  there 
an  account  of  it,  Mr.  Booley?" 

"  Oh  no  —  it  was  never  mentioned.  We  felt  sure 
that  we  should  catch  him  and  until  we  did  we  —  I 
mean  the  profession  —  thought  it  just  as  well  to  say 
nothing.  The  governor  remembered  to  have  read  a 
letter  from  Goddard's  wife,  just  telling  him  where 
she  was  living,  about  two  years  ago.  Being  harm 
less,  he  passed  it  and  never  copied  the  address ;  then 
he  could  not  remember  it.  At  last  they  found  it  in 


A    TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  359 

his  cell,  hidden  away  somehow.     The  beggar  had 
kept  it." 

"Poor  fellow!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Juxon.  In  the 
silence  which  followed,  the  sound  of  wheels  was 
heard  outside.  Doctor  Longstreet  had  arrived. 


360  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PAKlSil. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

WHILE  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  were  together  in 
the  library  downstairs,  while  John  Short  was  waking 
from  the  short  sleep  he  had  enjoyed,  and  while  the 
squire  was  listening  in  the  study  to  Mr.  Booley's 
graphic  account  of  the  convict's  escape,  Mrs.  God- 
dard  was  alone  with  her  husband,  watching  every 
movement  and  listening  intently  to  every  moaning 
breath  he  drew. 

In  the  desperate  anxiety  for  his  fate,  she  forgot 
herself  and  seemed  no  longer  to  feel  fatigue  or  ex 
haustion  from  all  she  herself  had  suffered.  She 
stood  long  by  his  bedside,  hoping  that  he  might 
recognise  her  and  yet  fearing  the  moment  when  he 
should  recover  his  senses.  Then  she  noticed  that 
the  morning  sun  was  pouring  in  through  the  window 
and  she  drew  a  curtain  across,  to  shade  his  eyes  from 
the  glare.  Whether  the  sudden  changing  of  the 
light  affected  Goddard,  as  it  does  sometimes  affect 
persons  in  the  delirium  of  a  brain  fever,  or  whether 
it  was  only  a  natural  turn  in  his  condition,  she  never 
knew.  His  expression  changed  and  acquired  that 
same  look  of  strange  intelligence  which  John  Short 
had  noticed  in  the  night;  the  flush  sank  from  his 
forehead  and  gave  place  to  a  luminous,  transparent 
colour,  his  eyelids  once  more  moved  naturally,  and 
he  looked  at  his  wife  as  she  stood  beside  him,  and 
recognised  her.  He  was  weaker  now  than  when  he 


A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  361 

had  spoken  with  John  Short  six  hours  earlier,  but  he 
was  more  fully  in  possession  of  his  faculties  for  a 
brief  moment.  Mary  Goddard  trembled  and  felt  her 
hands  turn  cold  with  excitement. 

"Walter,  do  you  know  me  now?"  she  asked  very 
softly. 

"Yes,"  he  said  faintly,  and  closed  his  eyes.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  forehead;  the  coldness  of  it 
seemed  pleasant  to  him,  for  a  slight  smile  flickered 
over  his  face. 

"You  are  better,  I  think,"  she  said  again,  gazing 
intently  at  him. 

"Mary  —  it  is  Mary?"  he  murmured,  slowly  open 
ing  his  eyes  and  looking  up  to  her.  "  Yes  —  I  know 
you  —  I  have  been  dreaming  a  long  time.  I'm  so 
tired  —  " 

"You  must  not  talk,"  said  she.  "It  will  tire  you 
more."  Then  she  gave  him  some  drink.  "Try  and 
sleep,"  she  said  in  a  soothing  tone. 

"I  cannot  —  oh,  Mary,  I  am  very  ill." 

"  But  you  will  get  well  again  —  " 

Goddard  started  suddenly,  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  arm  with  more  force  than  she  suspected  he 
possessed. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  asked,  staring  about  the  room. 
"Is  this  your  house,  Mary?  What  became  of 
Juxon?" 

"He  is  not  hurt.  He  brought  you  home  in  his 
arms,  Walter,  to  his  own  house,  and  is  taking  care 
of  you." 

"Good  heavens!  He  will  give  me  up.  No,  no, 
don't  hold  me  —  I  must  be  off!  " 

He  made  a  sudden  effort  to  rise,  but  he  was  very 
weak.  He  fell  back  exhausted  upon  his  pillow ;  his 


362  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

fingers  gripped  the  sheet  convulsively,  and  his  face 
grew  paler. 

"Caught  —  like  a  rat!  "  he  muttered.  Mary  God- 
dard  sighed. 

Was  she  to  give  him  hope  of  escape  ?  Or  should 
she  try  to  calm  him  now,  and  when  he  was  better, 
break  the  truth  to  him?  Was  she  to  make  him 
believe  that  he  was  safe  for  the  present,  and  hold 
out  a  prospect  of  escape  when  he  should  be  better,  or 
should  she  tell  him  now,  once  for  all,  while  he  was 
in  his  senses,  that  he  was  lost?  It  was  a  terrible 
position.  Love  she  had  none  left  for  him,  but  there 
was  infinite  pity  still  in  her  heart  and  there  would 
be  while  he  breathed.  She  hesitated  one  moment 
only,  and  it  may  be  that  she  decided  for  the  wrong ; 
but  it  was  her  pity  that  moved  her,  and  not  any  rem 
nant  of  love. 

"  Hush,  Walter,"  she  said.  "  You  may  yet  escape, 
when  you  are  strong  enough.  You  are  quite  safe 
here,  for  the  present.  Mr.  Juxon  would  not  think 
of  giving  you  up  now.  By  and  by  —  the  window  is 
not  high,  Walter,  and  I  shall  often  be  alone  with 
you.  I  will  manage  it." 

"Is  that  true?  Are  you  cheating  me?"  cried  the 
wretched  man  in  broken  tones.  "No  —  you  are 
speaking  the  truth  —  I  know  it  —  God  bless  you, 
Mary !  "  Again  he  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  one  or 
two  long  deep  breaths. 

Strange  to  say,  the  blessing  the  miserable  convict 
called  down  upon  her  was  sweet  to  Mary  Goddard, 
sweeter  than  anything  she  remembered  for  a  long 
time.  She  had  perhaps  done  wrong  in  giving  him 
hopes  of  escaping,  but  at  least  he  was  grateful  to  her. 
It  was  more  than  she  expected,  for  she  remembered 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  363 

her  last  meeting  with  him,  and  the  horrible  ingrati 
tude  he  had  then  shown  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
his  heart  had  been  softened  a  little;  anything  was 
better  than  that  rough  indifference  he  had  affected 
before.  Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"Not  that  it  makes  much  difference  now,  Mary," 
he  said.  "I  don't  think  there  is  much  left  of  me." 

"Do  not  say  that,  Walter,"  she  answered  gently. 
"  Rest  now.  The  more  you  rest  the  sooner  you  will 
be  well  again.  Try  and  sleep." 

"Sleep  —  no  —  I  cannot  sleep.  I  have  murdered 
sleep  —  like  Macbeth,  Mary,  like  Macbeth  —  Do  you 
remember  Macbeth?" 

"Hush,"  said  Mary  Goddard,  endeavouring  to 
calm  him,  though  she  turned  pale  at  his  strange  quo 
tation.  "Hush  —  " 

"That  is  to  say,"  said  the  sick  man,  heedless  of 
her  exhortation  and  soothing  touch,  "  that  is  to  say, 
I  did  not.  He  was  very  wide  awake,  and  if  I  had 
not  been  quick,  I  should  never  have  got  off.  Ugh ! 
How  damp  that  cellar  was,  that  first  night.  That  is 
where  I  got  my  fever.  It  is  fever,  I  suppose  ? "  he 
asked,  unable  to  keep  his  mind  for  long  in  one 
groove.  "What  does  the  doctor  say?  Has  he  been 
here?" 

"Yes.  He  said  you  would  soon  be  well;  but  he 
said  you  must  be  kept  very  quiet.  So  you  must  not 
talk,  or  I  will  go  away." 

"Oh  Mary,  don't  go  —  don't  go!  It's  like  —  ha! 
ha!  it's  quite  like  old  times,  Mary!"  He  laughed 
harshly,  a  hideous,  half-delirious  laugh. 

Mary  Goddard  shuddered  but  made  a  great  effort 
to  control  herself. 

"Yes,"  she  said  gently,  "it  is  like  old  times.    Try 


364  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

and  think  that  it  is  the  old  house  at  Putney,  Walter. 
Do  you  hear  the  sparrows  chirping,  just  as  they  used 
to  do?  The  curtains  are  the  same  colour,  too.  You 
used  to  sleep  so  quietly  at  the  old  house.  Try  and 
sleep  now.  Then  you  will  soon  get  well.  Now,  I 
will  sit  beside  you,  but  I  will  not  talk  any  more  — 
there  —  are  you  quite  comfortable  ?  A  little  higher  ? 
Yes  —  so.  Go  to  sleep." 

Her  quiet  voice  soothed  him,  and  her  gentle  hands 
made  his  rest  more  easy.  She  sat  down  beside  him, 
thinking  from  his  silence  that  he  would  really  go  to 
sleep ;  hoping  and  yet  not  hoping,  revolving  in  her 
mind  the  chances  of  his  escape,  so  soon  as  he  should 
be  strong  enough  to  attempt  it,  shuddering  at  the 
thought  of  what  his  fate  must  be  if  he  again  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  police.  She  did  not  know  that  a 
detective  was  at  that  moment  in  the  house,  deter 
mined  to  carry  her  husband  away  so  soon  as  the  doctor 
pronounced  it  possible.  Nothing  indeed,  not  even 
that  knowledge  could  have  added  much  to  the  burden 
of  her  sorrows  as  she  sat  there,  a  small  and  graceful 
figure  with  a  sad  pathetic  face,  leaning  forward  as 
she  sat  and  gazing  drearily  at  the  carpet,  where 
the  sunlight  crept  in  beneath  the  curtains  from  the 
bright  world  without.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
turning  point  in  her  existence  had  come,  and  that 
this  day  must  decide  all ;  yet  she  could  not  see  how 
it  was  to  be  decided,  think  of  it  as  she  might.  One 
thing  stood  prominent  in  her  thoughts,  and  she 
delighted  to  think  of  it  —  the  generosity  of  Charles 
Juxon.  From  first  to  last,  from  the  day  when  she 
had  frankly  told  him  her  story  and  he  had  accepted 
it  and  refused  to  let  it  bring  any  difference  to  his 
friendship  for  her,  down  to  this  present  time,  when 


A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  365 

after  being  basely  attacked  by  her  own  husband,  he 
had  nobly  brought  the  wretch  home  and  was  caring 
for  him  as  for  one  of  his  own  blood  —  through  all 
and  in  spite  of  all,  the  squire  had  shown  the  same 
unassuming  but  unfailing  generosity.  She  asked 
herself,  as  she  sat  beside  the  sick  man,  whether 
there  were  many  like  Charles  Juxon  in  the  world. 
There  was  the  vicar,  but  the  case  was  very  different. 
He  too  had  been  kind  and  generous  from  the  first; 
but  he  had  not  asked  her  to  marry  him  —  she  blushed 
at  the  thought  —  he  had  not  loved  her.  If  Charles 
Juxon  loved  her,  his  generosity  to  Goddard  was  all 
the  greater. 

She  could  not  tell  whether  she  loved  him,  because 
her  ideas  were  what  the  world  calls  simple,  and  what, 
in  heaven,  would  be  called  good.  Her  husband  was 
alive;  none  the  less  so  because  he  had  been  taken 
away  and  separated  from  her  by  the  law  —  he  was 
alive,  and  now  was  brought  face  to  face  with  her 
again.  While  he  was  living,  she  did  not  suppose  it 
possible  to  love  another,  for  she  was  very  simple. 
She  said  to  herself  truly  that  she  had  a  very  high 
esteem  for  the  squire  and  that  he  was  the  best  friend 
she  had  in  the  world ;  that  to  lose  him  would  be  the 
most  terrible  of  imaginable  losses ;  that  she  was  deeply 
indebted  to  him,  and  she  even  half  unconsciously 
allowed  that  if  she  were  free  she  might  marry  him. 
There  was  no  harm  in  that,  she  knew  very  well.  She 
owed  her  own  husband  no  longer  either  respect  or 
affection,  even  while  she  still  felt  pity  for  him.  Her 
esteem  at  least,  she  might  give  to  another ;  nay,  she 
owed  it,  and  if  she  had  refused  Charles  Juxon  her 
friendship,  she  would  have  called  herself  the  most 
ungrateful  of  women.  If  ever  man  deserved  respect, 
esteem  and  friendship,  it  was  the  squire. 


366  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

Even  in  the  present  anxiety  she  thought  of  him, 
for  his  conduct  seemed  the  only  bright  spot  in  the 
gloom  of  her  thoughts;  and  she  sincerely  rejoiced 
that  he  had  escaped  unhurt.  Had  any  harm  come  to 
him,  she  would  have  been,  if  it  were  possible,  more 
miserable  than  she  now  was.  But  he  was  safe  and 
sound,  and  doing  his  best  to  help  her  —  doing  more 
than  she  knew,  in  fact,  at  that  very  moment.  There 
was  at  least  something  to  be  thankful  for. 

Goddard  stirred  again,  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"Mary,"  he  said  faintly,  "they  won't  catch  me 
after  all." 

"No,  Walter,"  said  she,  humouring  him.  "Sleep 
quietly,  for  no  one  will  disturb  you." 

"  I  am  going  where  nobody  can  catch  me.     I  am 


"Oh,  Walter!"  cried  Mary  Goddard,  "you  must 
not  speak  like  that.  You  will  be  better  soon.  The 
doctor  is  expected  every  moment." 

"He  had  better  make  haste,"  said  the  sick  man 
with  something  of  the  roughness  he  had  shown  at 
their  first  meetings.  "It  is  no  use,  Mary.  I  have 
been  thinking  about  it.  I  have  been  mad  for  —  for 
very  long,  I  am  sure.  I  want  to  die,  Mary.  Nobody 
can  catch  me  if  I  die  —  I  shall  be  safe  then.  You  will 
be  safe  too  —  that  is  a  great  thing." 

His  voice  had  a  strange  and  meditative  tone  in  it, 
which  frightened  his  wife,  as  she  stood  close  beside 
him.  She  could  not  speak,  for  her  excitement  and 
fear  had  the  mastery  of  her  tongue. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  about  it  —  I  am  not  good 
for  much,  now  —  Mary  —  I  never  was.  It  will  do 
some  good  if  I  die  —  just  because  I  shall  be  out  of 
the  way.  It  will  be  the  only  good  thing  I  ever  did 
for  you." 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  367 

"Oh  Walter,"  cried  his  wife  in  genuine  distress, 
"don't  —  don't!  Think  —  you  must  not  die  so  — 
think  of  —  of  the  other  world,  Walter  —  you  must 
not  die  so!  " 

Goddard  smiled  faintly  —  scornfully,  his  wife 
thought. 

"  I  daresay  I  shall  not  die  till  to-morrow,  or  next 
day  —  but  I  will  not  live,"  he  said  with  sudden 
energy.  "  Do  you  understand  me,  I  will  not  live ! 
Bah!"  he  cried,  falling  back  upon  his  pillow,  "the 
grapes  are  sour  —  I  can't  live  if  I  would.  Oh  yes,  I 
know  all  about  that  —  my  sins.  Well,  I  am  sorry 
for  them.  I  am  sorry,  Mary.  But  it  is  very  little 
good  —  people  always  laugh  at  —  deathbed  repent 
ance —  " 

He  stopped  and  his  thoughts  seemed  wandering. 
Mary  Goddard  gave  him  something  to  drink  and  tried 
to  calm  him.  But  he  moved  restlessly,  though 
feebly. 

"Softly,  softly,"  he  murmured  again.  "He  is 
coming  —  close  to  me.  Get  ready  —  now  —  no  not 
yet,  yes  —  now.  Ugh!"  yelled  Goddard,  suddenly 
springing  up,  his  eyes  starting  from  his  head.  "  Ugh ! 
the  dog  — oh!" 

"  Hush,  Walter,"  cried  his  wife,  pushing  him  back. 
"Hush  —  no  one  will  hurt  you." 

"  What  —  is  that  you,  Mary  ?  "  asked  the  sick  man, 
trembling  violently.  Then  he  laughed  harshly.  "  I 
was  off  again .  Pshaw !  I  did  not  really  mean  to  hurt 
him  —  he  need  not  have  set  that  beast  at  me.  He  did 
not  catch  me  though  —  Mary,  I  am  going  to  die  —  will 
you  pray  for  me  ?  You  are  a  good  woman  —  somebody 
will  hear  your  prayers,  I  daresay.  Do,  Mary  —  I 
shall  feel  better  somehow,  though  I  daresay  it  is  very 
foolish  of  me." 


368  A  TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH. 

"No,  Walter  —  not  foolish,  not  foolish.  Would 
you  like  me  to  call  Mr.  Ambrose  ?  he  is  a  clergyman 
—  he  is  in  the  house." 

"  No,  no.  You  Mary,  you  —  nobody  will  hear  any 
body  else's  prayers  —  for  me  —  for  poor  me  —  " 

"Try  and  pray  with  me,  Walter,"  said  Mary  God- 
dard,  very  quietly.  She  seemed  to  have  an  unnatural 
strength  given  to  her  in  that  hour  of  distress  and 
horror.  She  knelt  down  by  the  bedside  and  took  his 
wounded  hand  in  hers,  tenderly,  and  she  prayed  aloud 
in  such  words  as  she  could  find. 

Below,  in  the  study,  the  detective  had  just  fin 
ished  telling  his  tale  to  the  squire,  and  the  wheels  of 
Doctor  Longstreet's  dog-cart  ground  upon  the  gravel 
outside.  The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a 
moment,  and  Mr.  Juxon  spoke  first. 

" That  is  the  doctor,"  said  he.  " I  will  ask  you  to 
have  patience  for  five  minutes,  Mr.  Booley.  He  will 
give  you  his  opinion.  I  am  still  very  much  shocked 
at  what  you  have  told  me  —  I  had  no  idea  what  had 
happened." 

"No — I  suppose  not,"  answered  Mr.  Booley 
calmly.  "If  you  will  ask  the  medical  man  to  step 
in  here  for  one  moment,  I  will  explain  matters  to 
him.  I  don't  think  he  will  differ  much  from  me." 

"Very  well,"  returned  the  squire,  leaving  the 
room.  He  went  to  meet  Doctor  Longstreet,  intending 
to  warn  him  of  the  presence  of  Mr.  Booley,  and 
meaning  to  entreat  his  support  for  the  purpose  of 
keeping  Goddard  in  the  house  until  he  should  be 
recovered.  He  passed  through  the  library  and  ex 
changed  a  few  words  with  Mr.  Ambrose,  explaining 
that  the  doctor  had  come.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose 
were  sitting  on  opposite  sides  of  the  fireplace  in 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.       369 

huge  chairs,  with  a  mournful  air  of  resigned  ex 
pectation  upon  their  worthy  faces.  The  detective 
remained  alone  in  the  study. 

Meanwhile  John  Short  had  refreshed  himself  from 
his  fatigues,  and  came  down  stairs  in  search  of  some 
breakfast.  He  had  recovered  from  his  excitement 
and  was  probably  the  only  one  who  thought  of  eating, 
as  he  was  also  the  one  least  closely  concerned  in  what 
was  occurring.  Instead  of  going  to  the  library  he 
went  to  the  dining-room,  and,  seeing  no  one  about, 
entered  the  study  from  the  door  which  on  that  side 
connected  the  two  rooms.  To  his  surprise  he  saw 
Mr.  Booley  standing  before  the  fireplace,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  his  feet  wide  apart.  He  had  not 
the  least  idea  who  he  was. 

"  Oh !  "  he  exclaimed,  staring  hard  at  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Booley,  who  took  him  for  the 
physician  whom  he  expected.  "  I  am  George  Booley 
of  the  detective  service.  I  was  expecting  you,  sir. 
There  is  very  little  to  be  said.  My  time,  as  I  told 
Mr.  Juxon,  is  very  valuable.  I  must  have  Goddard 
out  of  the  house  by  to-morrow  afternoon  at  the  latest. 
Now,  doctor,  it  is  of  no  use  your  talking  to  me  about 
fever  and  all  that  —  " 

John  had  stood  with  his  mouth  open,  staring  in 
blank  astonishment  at  the  detective,  unable  to  find 
words  in  which  to  question  the  man.  At  last  he  got 
his  breath. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about?"  he 
asked  slowly.  "  Are  you  a  raving  lunatic  —  or  what 
are  you  ?  " 

"Come,  come,  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Booley  in  persua 
sive  accents,  "  none  of  that  with  me,  you  know.  If 
the  man  must  be  moved  —  why  he  must,  that  is  all, 
and  you  must  make  it  possible,  somehow." 


370  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

"  You  are  crazy !  "  exclaimed  John.  "  I  am  not  the 
doctor,  to  begin  with  — 

"  Not  the  doctor !  "  cried  Mr.  Booley.  "  Then  who 
are  you?  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  sure  —  " 

"I  am  John  Short,"  said  John,  quickly,  heedless  of 
the  fact  that  his  name  conveyed  no  idea  whatever  to 
the  mind  of  the  detective.  He  cared  little,  for  he 
began  to  comprehend  the  situation,  and  he  fled  pre 
cipitately  into  the  library,  leaving  Mr.  Booley  alone 
to  wait  for  the  coming  of  the  real  physician.  But  in 
the  library  a  fresh  surprise  awaited  him;  there  he 
found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  seated  in  solemn  si 
lence  opposite  to  each  other.  He  had  not  suspected 
their  presence  in  the  house,  but  he  was  relieved  to 
see  them  —  anything  was  a  relief  at  that  moment. 

"Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "there  is  a 
detective  in  the  next  room  who  means  to  carry  off 
that  poor  man  at  once  —  as  he  is  —  sick  —  dying  per 
haps  —  it  must  be  prevented!  " 

"A  detective!  "  cried  the  vicar  and  his  wife  in  the 
same  breath. 

"My  dear  John,"  said  the  vicar  immediately  after 
wards,  "where  is  he?  I  will  reason  with  him." 

"  Augustin,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose  with  extreme  se 
verity,  "  it  is  barbarous.  I  will  go  upstairs.  If  he 
enters  the  room  it  shall  be  across  my  body." 

"Do,  my  dear,"  replied  the  vicar  in  great  excite 
ment,  and  not  precisely  appreciating  the  proposition 
to  which  he  gave  so  willing  an  assent. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  said  his  wife,  who  had  already 
reached  the  door.  From  which  it  appears  that  Mrs. 
Ambrose  was  a  brave  woman.  She  passed  rapidly 
up  the  staircase  to  Goddard's  room,  but  she  paused 
as  she  kid  her  hand  upon  the  latch.  From  within 


A  TALE  OF  A   LONELY   PARISH.  371 

she  could  hear  Mary  Goddard's  voice,  praying  aloud, 
as  she  had  never  heard  any  one  pray  before.  She 
paused  and  listened,  hesitating  to  interrupt  the  un 
happy  lady  in  such  a  moment.  Moreover,  though 
her  goodwill  was  boundless,  she  had  not  any  precise 
idea  how  to  manage  the  defence.  But  as  she  stood 
there,  the  thought  that  the  detective  might  at  any 
moment  follow  her  was  predominant.  The  voice 
within  the  room  paused  for  an  instant  and  Mrs. 
Ambrose  entered,  raising  one  finger  to  her  lips  as 
though  expecting  that  Mary  Goddard  would  speak  to 
her.  But  Mary  was  not  looking,  and  at  first  did  not 
notice  the  intrusion.  She  knelt  by  the  bedside,  her 
face  buried  in  the  coverlet,  her  hands  clasped  and 
clasping  the  sick  man's  wounded  hand. 

Goddard's  face  was  pale  but  not  deathlike,  and  his 
breathing  seemed  regular  and  gentle;  but  his  eyes 
were  almost  closed  and  he  seemed  not  aware  that 
any  one  had  entered.  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  struck  by 
his  appearance  which  was  greatly  changed  since  she 
had  left  him  half  an  hour  earlier,  his  face  purple  and 
his  harsh  moaning  continuing  unceasingly.  She  said 
to  herself  that  he  was  probably  better.  There  was 
all  the  more  reason  for  warning  Mary  Goddard  of  the 
new  danger  that  awaited  him.  She  shut  the  door  and 
locked  it  and  withdrew  the  key.  At  the  sound  Mary 
looked  up  —  then  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  sad  look  of 
reproach,  as  though  not  wishing  to  be  disturbed. 
But  Mrs.  Ambrose  came  quickly  to  her  side,  and 
glancing  once  at  Goddard,  to  see  whether  he  was 
unconscious,  she  led  her  away  from  the  bed. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  very  kindly,  but  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  excitement,  "  I  had  to  come.  There 
are  detectives  in  the  house,  clamouring  to  take 


372  A   TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

him  away  —  but  I  will  protect  you  —  they  shall  not 
doit." 

Mary  Goddard  started  and  her  eyes  stared  wildly 
at  her  friend.  But  presently  the  look  of  resigned 
sadness  returned,  and  a  faint  and  mournful  smile 
flickered  on  her  lips. 

"I  think  it  is  all  over,"  she  said.  "He  is  still 
alive  —  but  he  will  not  live  till  they  come.'* 

Then  she  bit  her  lip  tightly,  and  all  the  features 
of  her  face  trembled  a  little.  The  tears  would  rise 
spasmodically,  though  they  were  only  tears  of  pity, 
not  of  love.  Mrs.  Ambrose,  the  severe,  the  stern, 
the  eternally  vigilant  Mrs.  Ambrose,  sat  down  by 
the  window ;  she  put  her  arm  about  Mary  Goddard's 
waist  and  took  her  upon  her  knee  as  though  she  had 
been  a  little  child  and  laid  her  head  upon  her  breast, 
comforting  her  as  best  she  could.  And  their  tears 
flowed  down  and  mingled  together,  for  many  minutes. 

But  once  more  the  sick  man's  voice  was  heard; 
both  women  started  to  their  feet  and  went  to  his  side. 

"Mary  Goddard!  Mary  Goddard!  Let  me  in!" 
he  moaned  faintly. 

"It  is  I — here  I  am,  Walter,  dear  Walter  —  I 
am  with  you,"  ansAvered  Mary,  raising  him  and  put 
ting  her  arm  about  his  neck,  while  Mrs.  Ambrose 
arranged  the  pillows  behind  him.  He  opened  his 
eyes  as  though  with  a  great  effort. 

Some  one  knocked  softly  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Am 
brose  left  the  bedside  quickly  and  put  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  she  asked,  before  she  opened. 

"I  —  John.     Please  let  me  in." 

Mrs.  Ambrose  opened  and  John  entered,  very  pale ; 
she  locked  the  door  again  after  him.  He  stood  still 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY   PARISH.  373 

looking  with  astonishment  at  Mrs.  Goddard  who  still 
propped  the  sick  man  in  her  arms  and  hardly  noticed 
him. 

"Why  —  ?"  he  ejaculated  and  then  checked  him 
self,  or  rather  was  checked  by  Mrs.  Ambrose's  look. 
Then  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  whisper. 

"  There  is  an  awful  row  going  on  between  the  doc 
tor  and  the  detective,"  he  said  hurriedly  under  his 
breath.  "They  are  coming  upstairs  and  the  vicar 
and  Mr.  Juxon  are  trying  to  part  them  —  I  don't 
know  what  they  are  not  saying  to  each  other  —  " 

"Hush,"  replied  Mrs.  Ambrose,  "do  not  disturb 
him  —  he  was  conscious  again  just  now.  This  may 
be  the  crisis  —  he  may  recover.  The  door  is  locked 
—  try  and  prevent  anybody  —  that  is,  the  detective, 
from  coming  in.  They  will  not  dare  to  break  open 
the  door  in  Mr.  Juxon's  house." 

"But  why  is  Mrs.  Goddard  here?"  asked  John 
unable  to  control  his  curiosity  any  longer.  He  did 
not  mean  that  she  should  hear,  but  as  she  laid  God- 
dard's  head  gently  upon  the  pillows,  trying  to  soothe 
him  to  rest  again,  if  rest  it  were,  she  looked  up  and 
met  John's  eyes. 

"  Because  he  is  my  husband,"  said  she  very  quietly. 

John  laid  his  hand  on  Mrs.  Ambrose's  arm  in 
utmost  bewilderment  and  looked  at  her  as  though  to 
ask  if  it  were  true.  She  nodded  gravely.  Before 
John  had  time  to  recover  himself  from  the  shock  of 
the  news,  footsteps  were  heard  outside,  and  the  loud 
altercation  of  angry  voices.  John  Short  leaned  his 
shoulder  against  the  door  and  put  his  foot  against  it 
below,  expecting  an  attack. 


374  A  TALE   OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

WHEN  Mr.  Ambrose  undertook  to  reason  with  the 
detective  he  went  directly  towards  the  study  where 
John  said  the  man  was  waiting.  But  Mr.  Booley 
was  beginning  to  suspect  that  the  doctor  was  not 
coming  to  speak  with  him  as  the  squire  had  prom 
ised,  and  after  hesitating  for  a  few  moments  followed 
John  into  the  library,  determining  to  manage  mat 
ters  himself.  As  he  opened  the  door  he  met  Mr. 
Ambrose  coming  towards  him,  and  at  the  same  mo 
ment  Mr.  Juxon  and  Doctor  Longstreet  entered  from 
the  opposite  end  of  the  long  room.  The  cheerful  and 
active  physician  was  talking  in  a  rather  excited  tone. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  pretend  to  say 
that  the  man  will  or  will  not  recover.  I  must  see 
him  again.  Things  look  quite  differently  by  day 
light,  and  six  or  seven  hours  may  make  all  the  change 
in  the  world.  To  say  that  he  can  be  moved  to-day 
or  even  to-morrow,  is  absurd.  I  will  stake  my  repu 
tation  as  a  practitioner  —  Hulloa!  " 

The  exclamation  was  elicited  by  Mr.  Booley,  who 
had  pushed  past  Mr.  Ambrose  and  stood  confront 
ing  the  doctor  with  a  look  which  was  intended  to 
express  a  combination  of  sarcasm,  superior  cunning 
and  authority. 

"This  is  Mr.  Booley,"  explained  the  squire. 
"  Doctor  Longstreet  will  tell  you  what  he  has  been 
telling  me,"  he  added  turning  to  the  detective. 


A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY  PARISH.  375 

"I  must  see  this  man  instantly,"  said  the  latter 
somewhat  roughly.  "I  believe  I  am  being  trifled 
with,  and  I  will  not  submit  to  it.  No,  sir,  I  will 
not  be  trifled  with,  I  assure  you !  I  must  see  this 
man  at  once.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  identify 
him." 

"And  I  say,"  said  Doctor  Longstreet  with  equal 
firmness,  "  that  I  must  see  him  first,  in  order  to  judge 
whether  you  can  see  him  or  not  —  " 

"  It  is  for  me  to  judge  of  that,"  returned  Mr.  Booley, 
with  more  haste  than  logic. 

"  After  you  have  seen  him,  you  cannot  judge 
whether  you  ought  to  see  him  or  not,"  retorted  Doctor 
Longstreet  growing  red  in  the  face.  The  detective 
attempted  to  push  past  him.  At  this  moment  John 
Short  hastily  left  the  room  and  fled  upstairs  to  warn 
Mrs.  Ambrose  of  what  was  happening. 

"  Really,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  making  a  vain  attempt 
to  stop  the  course  of  events,  "  this  is  very  unwarrant 
able." 

"Unwarrantable!"  cried  Mr.  Booley.  "Unwar 
rantable,  indeed !  I  have  the  warrant  in  my  pocket. 
Mr.  Juxon,  sir,  I  fear  I  must  insist." 

"Permit  me,"  said  Mr.  Juxon, 'planting  his  square 
and  sturdy  form  between  the  door  and  the  detective. 
"You  may  certainly  insist,  but  you  must  begin  by 
listening  to  reason." 

Charles  Juxon  had  been  accustomed  to  command 
others  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  and  though  he 
was  generally  the  most  unobtrusive  and  gentle  of 
men,  when  he  raised  his  voice  in  a  tone  of  authority 
his  words  carried  weight.  His  blue  eyes  stared  hard 
at  Mr.  Booley,  and  there  was  something  imposing  in 
his  square  head  —  even  in  the  unruffled  smoothness 


376  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

of  his  brown  hair.  Mr.  Booley  paused  and  discon 
tentedly  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"Simply  this,"  answered  the  squire.  "You  may 
accompany  us  to  the  door  of  the  room ;  you  may  wait 
with  me,  while  Doctor  Longstreet  goes  in  to  look  at 
the  patient.  If  the  man  is  unconscious  you  may  go 
in  and  see  him.  If  he  chances  to  be  in  a  lucid  inter 
val,  you  must  wait  until  he  is  unconscious  again.  It 
will  not  be  long.  That  is  perfectly  reasonable." 

"Perfectly,"  echoed  Mr.  Ambrose,  biting  his  long 
upper  lip  and  glaring  as  fiercely  at  Mr.  Booley  as 
though  he  had  said  it  all  himself. 

"  Absolutely  reasonable,"  added  Doctor  Longstreet. 

"Well,  we  will  try  it,"  said  the  detective  moodily. 
"But  I  warn  you  I  will  not  be  trifled  with." 

"Nobody  is  trifling  with  you,"  answered  the  squire 
coldly.  "This  way  if  you  please."  And  he  forth 
with  led  the  way  upstairs,  followed  by  Mr.  Booley, 
the  physician  and  the  vicar. 

Before  they  reached  the  door,  however,  the  discus 
sion  broke  out  again.  Mr.  Booley  had  been  held  in 
check  for  a  few  moments  by  Mr.  Juxon's  determined 
manner,  but  as  he  followed  the  squire  he  began  to 
regret  that  he  had  yielded  so  far  and  he  made  a  fresh 
assertion  of  his  rights. 

"I  cannot  see  why  you  want  to  keep  me  outside," 
he  said.  "What  difference  can  it  make,  I  should 
like  to  know?" 

"  You  will  have  to  take  my  word  for  it  that  it  does 
make  a  difference,"  said  the  doctor,  testily.  "If  you 
frighten  the  man,  he  will  die.  Now  then,  here  we 


are." 


"I  don't  like  your  tone,  sir,"  said  Booley  angrily, 


A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  377 

again  trying  to  push  past  the  physician.  "  I  think  I 
must  insist,  after  all.  I  will  go  in  with  you  —  I  tell 
you  I  will,  sir  —  don't  stop  me." 

Doctor  Longstreet,  who  was  fifteen  or  twenty  years 
older  than  the  detective  but  still  strong  and  active, 
gripped  his  arm  quickly,  and  held  him  back. 

"  If  you  go  into  that  room  without  my  permission, 
and  if  the  man  dies  of  fright,  I  will  have  an  action 
brought  against  you  for  manslaughter,"  he  said  in  a 
loud  voice. 

"And  I  will  support  it,"  said  the  squire.  "I  am 
justice  of  the  peace  here,  and  what  is  more,  I  am  in 
my  own  house.  Do  not  think  your  position  will 
protect  you." 

Again  Mr.  Juxon's  authoritative  tone  checked  the 
detective,  who  drew  back,  making  some  angry  retort 
which  no  one  heard.  The  squire  tried  the  door  and 
finding  it  locked,  knocked  softly,  not  realising  that 
every  word  of  the  altercation  had  been  heard  within. 

"Who  is  there?"  asked  John,  who  though  he  had 
heard  all  that  had  been  said  was  uncertain  of  the 
issue. 

"Let  in  Doctor  Longstreet,"  said  the  squire's 
voice. 

But  meanwhile  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Mary  Goddard 
were  standing  on  each  side  of  the  sick  man.  He  must 
have  heard  the  noises  outside,  and  they  conveyed  some 
impression  to  his  brain. 

"Mary,  Mary!"  he  groaned  indistinctly.  "Save 
me  —  they  are  coming  —  I  cannot  get  away  —  softly, 
he  is  coming  —  now  —  I  shall  just  catch  him  as  he 
goes  by  —  Ugh !  that  dog  —  oh !  oh !  —  " 

With  a  wild  shriek,  the  wretched  man  sprang  up, 
upon  his  knees,  his  eyes  starting  out,  his  face  trans- 


378  A   TALE   OF   A  LONELY   PARISH. 

figured  with  horror.  For  one  instant  he  remained 
thus,  half-supported  by  the  two  terror-struck  women ; 
then  with  a  groan  his  head  drooped  forward  upon  his 
breast  and  he  fell  back  heavily  upon  the  pillows, 
breathing  still  but  quite  unconscious. 

Doctor  Longstreet  entered  at  that  moment  and  ran 
to  his  side.  But  when  he  saw  him  he  paused.  Even 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  white  with  horror,  and  Mary  God- 
dard  stood  motionless,  staring  down  at  her  husband, 
her  hands  gripping  the  disordered  coverlet  convul 
sively. 

Mr.  Juxon  had  entered,  too,  while  Mr.  Ambrose 
remained  outside  with  the  detective,  who  had  been 
frightened  into  submission  by  the  physician's  last 
threat.  The  squire  saw  what  was  happening  and 
paced  the  room  in  the  greatest  agitation,  wringing 
his  hands  together  and  biting  his  lips.  John  had 
closed  the  door  and  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
looked  at  Goddard's  face.  After  a  pause,  Doctor 
Longstreet  spoke. 

"  We  might  possibly  restore  him  to  consciousness 
for  a  moment  —  " 

"Don't!  "  cried  Mary  Goddard,  starting  as  though 
some  one  had  struck  her.  "  That  is  —  "  she  added 
quickly,  in  broken  tones,  "  unless  he  can  live !  " 

"No,"  answered  the  physician,  gravely,  but  look 
ing  hard  at  the  unhappy  woman.  " He  is  dying." 

Goddard's  staring  eyes  were  glazed  and  white. 
Twice  and  three  times  he  gasped  for  breath,  and  then 
lay  quite  still.  It  was  all  over.  Mary  gazed  at  his 
dead  face  for  one  instant,  then  a  faint  smile  parted 
her  lips:  she  raised  one  hand  to  her  forehead  as 
though  dazed. 

"He  is  safe   now,"   she   murmured  very  faintly. 


A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH.  379 

Her  limbs  relaxed  suddenly,  and  she  fell  straight 
backwards.  Charles  Juxon,  who  was  watching  her, 
sprang  forward  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  Then  he 
bore  her  from  the  room,  swiftly,  while  John  Short 
who  was  as  white  and  speechless  as  the  rest  opened 
the  door. 

"You  may  go  in  now,"  said  Juxon  as  he  passed 
Booley  and  Mr.  Ambrose  in  the  passage,  with  his 
burden  in  his  arms.  A  few  steps  farther  on  he  met 
Holmes  the  butler,  who  carried  a  telegram  on  a  salver. 

"For  Mr.  Short,  sir,"  said  the  impassive  servant, 
not  appearing  to  notice  anything  strange  in  the  fact 
that  his  master  was  carrying  the  inanimate  body  of 
Mary  Goddard. 

"He  is  in  there  —  go  in,"  said  Juxon  hurriedly  as 
he  went  on  his  way. 

The  detective  and  the  vicar  had  already  entered  the 
room  where  the  dead  convict  was  lying.  All  stood 
around  the  bed,  gazing  at  his  pale  face  as  he  lay. 

"A  telegram  for  Mr.  Short,"  said  Holmes  from  the 
door.  John  started  and  took  the  despatch  from  the 
butler's  hands.  He  hastily  tore  it  open,  glanced  at 
the  contents  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket.  Every 
one  looked  round. 

"What  is  it,  John?"  whispered  the  vicar,  who 
was  nearest  to  him. 

"  Oh  —  nothing.  I  am  first  in  the  Tripos,  that  is 
all,"  answered  John  very  simply,  as  though  it  were 
not  a  matter  of  the  least  consequence. 

Through  all  those  months  of  untiring  labour, 
through  privation  and  anxiety,  through  days  of 
weariness  and  nights  of  study,  he  had  looked  for 
ward  to  the  triumph,  often  doubting  but  never  de 
spairing.  But  he  had  little  guessed  that  the  news 


380  A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH. 

of  victory  would  reach  him  at  such  a  moment.  It 
was  nothing,  he  said ;  and  indeed  as  he  stood  with 
the  group  of  pale  and  awe-struck  spectators  by  the 
dead  man's  bed,  he  felt  that  the  greatest  thing  which 
had  ever  happened  to  him  was  as  nothing  compared 
with  the  tragedy  of  which  he  had  witnessed  the  last 
act. 

It  was  all  over.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said;  the  convict  had  escaped  the  law  in  the  end,  at 
the  very  moment  when  the  hand  of  the  law  was  upon 
him.  Thomas  Reid,  the  conservative  sexton,  buried 
him  "four  by  six  by  two,"  grumbling  at  the  parish 
depth  as  of  yore,  and  a  simple  stone  cross  marked  his 
nameless  grave.  There  it  stands  to  this  day  in  the 
churchyard  of  Billingsfield,  Essex,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  ancient  abbey. 

All  these  things  happened  a  long  time  ago,  accord 
ing  to  Billingsfield  reckoning,  but  the  story  of  the 
tramp  who  attacked  Squire  Juxon  and  was  pulled 
down  by  the  bloodhound  is  still  told  by  the  villagers, 
and  Mr.  Gall,  being  once  in  good  cheer,  vaguely 
hinted  that  he  knew  who  the  tramp  was;  but  from 
the  singular  reticence  he  has  always  shown  in  the 
matter,  and  from  the  prosperity  which  has  attended 
his  constabulary  career,  it  may  well  be  believed  that 
he  has  a  life  interest  in  keeping  his  counsel.  Indeed 
as  it  is  nearly  ten  years  since  Mr.  Reid  buried  the 
poor  tramp,  it  is  possible  that  Mr.  Gall's  memory 
may  be  already  failing  in  regard  to  events  which  oc 
curred  at  so  remote  a  date. 

It  was  but  an  incident,  though  it  was  perhaps  the 
only  incident  of  any  interest  which  ever  occurred  in 
Billingsfield;  but  until  it  reached  its  termination  it 


A  TALE   OF   A   LONELY  PARISH.  381 

agitated  the  lives  of  the  quiet  people  at  the  vicarage, 
at  the  cottage  and  at  the  Hall  as  violently  as  human 
nature  can  be  moved.  It  was  long,  too,  before  those 
who  had  witnessed  the  scene  of  Goddard's  death  could 
shake  off  the  impression  of  those  awful  last  moments. 
Yet  time  does  all  things  wonderful  and  in  the  course 
of  not  many  months  there  remained  of  Goddard's 
memory  only  a  great  sense  of  relief  that  he  was  no 
longer  alive.  Mary  Goddard,  indeed,  was  very  ill 
for  a  long  time;  and  but  for  Mrs.  Ambrose's  tender 
care  of  her,  might  have  followed  her  husband  within 
a  few  weeks  of  his  death.  But  the  good  lady  never 
left  her,  until  she  was  herself  again  —  absolutely  her 
self,  saving  that  as  time  passed  and  her  deep  wounds 
healed  her  sorrows  were  forgotten,  and  she  seemed  to 
bloom  out  into  a  second  youth. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  within  two  years  Charles 
Juxon  once  more  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  She  hesi 
tated  long  —  fully  half  an  hour,  the  squire  thought; 
but  in  the  end  she  put  out  her  small  hand  and  laid  it 
in  his,  and  thanked  God  that  a  man  so  generous  and 
true,  and  whom  she  so  honestly  loved,  was  to  be  her 
husband  as  well  as  her  friend  and  protector.  Charles 
James  Juxon  smoothed  his  hair  with  his  other  hand, 
and  his  blue  eyes  were  a  little  moistened. 

"God  bless  you,  Mary,"  he  said;  and  that  was  all. 

Then  the  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose  married 
them  in  the  church  of  Saint  Mary's,  between  Christ 
mas  and  New  Year's  Day;  and  the  wedding-party 
consisted  of  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Eleanor  Goddard  and 
John  Short,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
And  again  years  passed  by,  and  Nellie  grew  in  beauty 
as  John  grew  in  reputation;  and  Nellie  had  both 
brothers  and  sisters,  as  she  had  longed  to  have,  and 


382  A   TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH. 

to  her,  their  father  was  as  her  own ;  so  that  there  was 
much  harmony  and  peace  and  goodwill  towards  men 
in  Billingsfield  Hall.  John  came  often  and  stayed 
long,  and  was  ever  welcome ;  for  though  Mary  God- 
dard's  youth  returned  with  the  daffodils  and  the  roses 
of  the  first  spring  after  Walter's  death,  John's  fleet 
ing  passion  returned  not,  and  perhaps  its  place  was 
better  taken.  Year  by  year,  as  he  came  to  refresh 
himself  from  hard  work  with  a  breath  of  the  country 
air,  he  saw  the  little  girl  grow  to  the  young  maiden 
of  sixteen,  and  he  saw  her  beauty  ripen  again  to  the 
fulness  of  womanhood ;  and  at  last,  when  she  was  one 
and  twenty  years  of  age  he  in  his  turn  put  out  his 
hand  and  asked  her  to  take  him  —  which  she  did,  for 
better  or  worse,  but  to  all  appearances  for  better.  For 
John  Short  had  prospered  mightily  in  the  world,  and 
had  come  to  think  his  first  great  success  as  very  small 
and  insignificant  as  compared  with  what  he  had  done 
since.  But  his  old  simplicity  was  in  him  yet,  and 
was  the  cause  of  much  of  his  prosperity,  as  it  gener 
ally  is  when  it  is  found  together  with  plenty  of 
brains.  It  was  doubtless  because  he  was  so  very 
simple  that  when  he  found  that  he  loved  Eleanor 
Goddard  he  did  not  hesitate  to  ask  the  convict's 
daughter  to  be  his  wife.  His  interview  with  Mr. 
Juxon  was  characteristic. 

"You  know  what  you  are  doing,  John?"  asked 
the  squire.  He  always  called  him  John,  now. 

"Perfectly,"  replied  the  scholar,  "I  am  doing  pre 
cisely  what  my  betters  have  done  before  me  with  such 
admirable  result." 

"Betters?" 

"  You.  You  knew  about  it  all  and  you  married  her 
mother.  I  know  all  about  it,  and  I  wish  to  marry 
herself." 


A  TALE   OF   A   LOXELY  PARISH.  383 

"You  know  that  she  never  heard  the  story? " 

"Yes.     She  never  shall." 

"  No,  John  —  she  never  must.  Well,  all  good  go 
with  you." 

So  Charles  Juxon  gave  his  consent.  And  Mary 
Juxon  consented  too ;  but  for  the  first  time  in  many 
years  the  tears  rose  again  to  her  eyes,  and  she  laid 
her  hand  on  John's  arm,  as  they  walked  together  in 
the  park. 

"Oh,  John,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  it  is  right  — 
for  you  yourself?" 

"Of  course  I  think  so,"  quoth  John  stoutly. 

"  You  John  —  with  your  reputation,  your  success, 
with  the  whole  world  at  your  feet  —  you  ought  not 
to  marry  the  daughter  of  —  of  such  a  man." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Juxon,"  said  John  Short,  "is  she 
not  your  daughter  as  well  as  his  ?  Pray,  pray  do  not 
mention  that  objection.  I  assure  you  I  have  thought 
it  all  over.  There  is  really  nothing  more  to  be  said, 
which  I  have  not  said  to  myself.  Dear  Mrs.  Juxon 
—  do  say  Yes !  " 

"You  are  very  generous,  John,  as  well  as  great," 
she  answered  looking  up  to  his  face.  "Well  —  I 
have  nothing  to  say.  You  must  do  as  you  think  best. 
I  am  sure  you  will  be  kind  to  Nellie,  for  I  have 
known  you  for  ten  years  —  you  may  tell  her  I  am 
very  glad  — "  she  stopped,  her  eyes  brimming  over 
with  tears. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  angry  I  was  once,  when 
you  told  me  to  go  and  talk  to  Nellie?"  said  John. 
"It  was  just  here,  too  —  " 

Mary  Juxon  laughed  happily  and  brushed  the  tears 
from  her  eyes.  So  it  was  all  settled. 

Once  more  the  Reverend  Augustin  Ambrose  united 


384       A  TALE  OF  A  LONELY  PARISH. 

two  loving  hearts  before  the  altar  of  Saint  Mary's. 
He  was  well  stricken  in  years,  and  his  hair  and  beard 
were  very  white.  Mrs.  Ambrose  also  grew  more 
imposing  with  each  succeeding  season,  but  her  face 
was  softer  than  of  old,  and  her  voice  more  gentle. 
For  the  sorrow  and  suffering  of  a  few  days  had  drawn 
together  the  hearts  of  all  those  good  people  with 
strong  bands,  and  a  deep  affection  had  sprung  up 
between  them  all.  The  good  old  lady  felt  as  though 
Mary  Juxon  were  her  daughter  —  Mary  Juxon,  by 
whom  she  had  stood  in  the  moment  of  direst  trial  and 
terror,  whom  she  had  tended  in  illness  and  cheered 
in  recovery.  And  the  younger  woman's  heart  had 
gone  out  towards  her,  feeling  how  good  a  thing  it  is 
to  find  a  friend  in  need,  and  learning  to  value  in  her 
happiness  the  wealth  of  human  kindness  she  had 
found  in  her  adversity. 

They  are  like  one  family,  now,  having  a  common 
past,  a  common  present,  and  a  common  future,  and 
there  is  no  dissension  among  them.  Honest  and  loyal 
men  and  women  may  meet  day  after  day,  and  join 
hands  and  exchange  greetings,  without  becoming  firm 
friends,  for  the  very  reason  that  they  have  no  need 
of  each  other.  But  if  the  storm  of  a  great  sorrow 
breaks  among  them  and  they  call  out  to  each  other  for 
help,  and  bear  the  brunt  of  the  weather  hand  in  hand, 
the  seed  of  a  deeper  affection  is  brought  into  their 
midst ;  and  when  the  tempest  is  past  the  sweet  flower 
of  friendship  springs  up  in  the  moistened  furrows  of 
their  lives. 

So  those  good  people  in  the  lonely  parish  of  Bil- 
lingsfield  gathered  round  Mary  Goddard,  as  they 
called  her  then,  and  round  poor  little  Nellie,  and 
did  their  best  to  protect  the  mother  and  the  child 


A    TALE   OF   A   LONELY   PARISH.  385 

from  harm  and  undeserved  suffering;  and  afterwards, 
when  it  was  all  over,  and  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  feared  in  the  future,  they  looked  into  each  other's 
faces  and  felt  that  they  were  become  as  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  that  so  long  as  they  should  live  —  may  it 
be  long  indeed  !  —  there  was  a  bond  between  them 
which  could  never  be  broken.  So  it  was  that  Mrs. 
Ambrose's  face  softened  and  her  voice  was  less  severe 
than  it  had  been. 

Mary  Juxon  is  the  happiest  of  women  ;  happy  in 
her  husband,  in  her  eldest  daughter,  in  John  Short 
and  in  the  little  children  with  bright  faces  and  ring 
ing  voices  who  nestle  at  her  knee  or  climb  over  the 
sturdy  sailor-squire,  and  pull  his  great  beard  and 
make  him  laugh.  They  will  never  know,  any  more 
than  Nellie  knew,  all  that  their  mother  suffered; 
and  as  she  looks  upon  them  and  strokes  their  long 
fair  hair  and  listens  to  their  laughter,  she  says  to 
herself  that  it  was  perhaps  almost  worth  while  to  have 
been  dragged  down  towards  the  depths  of  shame  for 
the  sake  of  at  last  enjoying  such  pride  and  glory  of 
happy  motherhood. 


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